


The Moon and the Sun

by Masked_Man_2



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1830s, BAMF oc, Enjolras needs to control his temper, Male-Female Friendship, No Romance, Pre-Barricade, Revolutionaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is an orphan, skilled and dangerous. He is a revolutionary, ambitious and cold. Separately, they are formidable. Together, they are unstoppable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was no way she could have foreseen it. These kinds of things are not planned for, after all.

 

Tamar Kardashian cast a wary eye into the pitch-black alleys around her. Paris was a dangerous city by night, especially the slums of Saint-Michel. She wouldn’t have chosen this city as a place to visit or reside, but she had to get away. Get away from him….

 

The girl was originally from Vienna, and had lived there the first ten years of her life. Her father had been a luthier; not particularly poor, but certainly not rich, and she could remember many nights of hunger, because her father refused to beg for food or money. Still, he was not above stealing, and would associate with several shady characters from time to time. Eventually, one of those characters, a Prussian assassin and thief, got sick of her father competing with him for business, and killed him, and her mother, a total innocent. Spiro Vonnegut would have killed her, too, but she’d fled, and had been hiding from him ever since. 

Five years. Five years she’d been on the run. She’d crossed this continent at least twice, never staying in one place too long, and now she was in Paris.

 

Best keep an eye out, she thought. There could be anyone in those alleys. Unobtrusively, her father’s voice came back to her. He hadn’t loved her, but he’d taught her plenty of useful tricks. For that she was grateful, but she’d never forget the drunken beatings, the starving nights, or looks of disdain. Vonnegut had almost done her a favor by killing him, but….

 

“Well, well, well. Who do we ‘ave ‘ere?” a voice drawled in her ear. Tamar froze as a cold hand clamped onto her shoulder. “What’s a little boy like you doin’ out all alone?” Something icy and sharp touched her neck, as a shadowy figure stalked up to stand in front of her. Tamar could smell his rancid breath.

“Looks like a well-off kid,” the newcomer rasped. “Search ‘im, boys!” The man holding her dug his blade in ever so slightly as three more men came up. One of them, his breath reeking of alcohol, roughly patted her chest-and grinned.

“Hey, boss,” he slurred. “This ain’t no boy. Issa fine young lady.” Tamar grit her teeth as the man holding her moved his hands to her waist. The other men laughed as the boss forced her chin up, meeting her eyes. 

“Girl, eh? Whatcha doin’ wearin’ them clothes, now?” he chuckled, darkly.

“I don’t answer to the likes of you,” she snarled. The man laughed again.

“Yer a feisty one, ain’t ya? You know what we do with people like you, girlie?” He grinned evilly, taking a step forward. “We take our pleasure with ‘em, we do. Descant!” The man holding her grabbed the buttons of her waistcoat.

 

Tamar took a deep breath, and screamed as loud as she could. The boss swore, and Descant stepped back in shock. The smallest man covered his ears. Tamar whipped around, striking Descant in the temple. He dropped like a rock. 

The drunk man came at her with a clumsy punch; she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and his neck with her right. Tipping his neck down and pulling his head into her chest, she swung him to the ground, kneeled into his ribs, and dislocated his arm.The drunk screamed in pain, and she whirled to face the rest.

 

“Who’s next?” she taunted, the trace of a smirk on her lips. The two unknown men glanced at each other, then at their boss.

“Don’t just stand there! Get her, fools!” he roared. The larger of the two immediately shot forward and grabbed her wrists. She flipped her hands over and took a step back, kicking him in the stomach. He doubled over, and she dropped a downward elbow into the space between his shoulders. He dropped. One down, two to go.

Suddenly, the back of her head exploded with pain, and she staggered. Trying not to fall over, she wrenched around to face the small man, who grinned.

“Hello,” he said. “How d’ya do?” And he brought up a brick, to hit her again. Struggling to remain conscious, Tamar ducked under it, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over he back. The boss glanced at his fallen men, and ran his tongue over cracked lips.

“You’re good,” he murmured, “but you won’t be for much longer. Suddenly, he lunged and grabbed her in a front choke. She brought her arms up, trying to break the grip, but her strength was failing rapidly. The boss chuckled darkly, and Tamar felt her vision darken. She could barely breathe now; in her delirious state, she thought she saw something creeping toward the boss.

CRACK! The clang of metal against bone rang out through the night, and the grip on her throat slackened. The boss fell to his knees, gripping the back of his head, and passed out at her feet. Tamar glanced up into a pair of sea-blue eyes, which narrowed into a concerned frown. A hand stretched towards her, and somewhere in the distance, someone asked if she was alright, but then she hit the ground, and the world disappeared in a shower of stars.


	2. Chapter 2

She was...floating. There was no other way to describe this strange feeling. She didn’t know where the hell she was, but it was soft, quiet, and dark. So dark….

 

“Well?” A voice cut into the the silence, and Tamar whimpered slightly, cursing whoever it was who had broken the peace. “Will she be all right?”

Who are they talking about? she wondered. Is it me? What happened?

“She should be fine, in a week or so. That concussion will take a while to heal, and she’s lucky there was no extensive damage.” A different voice this time, softer and slightly higher-pitched than the first. She instinctively turned towards the second speaker, seeking comfort in his soft, professional tone.

“Shouldn’t she have woken up by now, though?” That was the first man again; he sounded worried. In her half-conscious state, Tamar felt vaguely confused. Why would he be worried? After all, she was fairly certain she didn’t know him. Or did she? Perhaps the speaker was the person who had saved her in the alley; it was entirely within the realm of possibility. Her interest peaked, Tamar forced her eyes open. Two shapes blurred in and out of focus in front of her: one tall, and the other rather small. Both staring in shock.

 

“Who-what…” But a wave of pain hit her so fast she was left breathless. Her head pounded, and her throat felt tight, like she was being choked. Clenching her teeth, Tamar tried futilely to keep the pain at bay.

“Mademoiselle!” the first voice exclaimed. She shook her head, unable to speak. “Joly, what happened? Why can’t she speak?”

“Don’t worry, mon ami. It’s only natural for her to feel the pain of her injuries upon awakening.” The first man muttered something in reply, and a moment later, a door slammed shut, making Tamar wince. When the pain abated slightly, she opened her eyes, glancing around in confusion.

 

“Hello, mademoiselle,” Joly whispered. “How are you feeling?” Tamar managed to focus on him; he smiled gently as he took her hand. She smiled back, slightly.

“I...feel alright, I suppose. Where am I? What happened to me?”

“ You…” Joly sighed. “I assume you remember getting attacked?” When the girl nodded, Joly continued. “My friend Enjolras found you and knocked one of your assailants out. When you passed out, he brought you here, to his apartment.” Tamar frowned a bit and nodded. Of course, she remembered all that. The boss choking her, the man hitting him, and her blackout. It seemed like so long ago.

“How long was I out?”

“All last night, and most of today. It is half past six now.”

“Half past six?!” Tamar pushed herself to a sitting position, but Joly pushed her back down. “Monsieur, please, I really must go! Surely you understand!” But Joly shook his head.

“Mademoiselle, you are in condition to be moving yet. For God’s sake, you just woke up!”

“No, really. I am grateful to both you and your friend, but I cannot impose on...what did you say your friend’s name was?”

“Enjolras.”

“Yes. I can’t impose on him. I am indebted to him enough as it is!”

“Do not think of it in that way, please. You need to rest to recover. Once you are healed, you are free to go where you wish, but until then, you really should stay here.”

 

Tamar thought hard for a moment. Joly was right, she wasn’t in any condition to be wandering around the city alone. She of all people knew that. She blew out a sigh.

“All right,” she murmured resignedly. “I’ll stay, but only til I heal. Alright?” Joly nodded, relieved.

“Excellent. And, mademoiselle, if I may, what is your name, and where are you from? Your accent and dress are rather...odd, though you will forgive me for saying so.” Tamar shrugged.

“It’s fine. I am from Vienna, and I only dress in men’s clothes because they are easier to maneuver in. My name is Tamar Kardashian.”

 

Tamar. It was an odd name, Joly thought. Odd, but fitting, for this enigma of a girl. Studying her, Joly realized that she was younger than he’d thought. Her long hair was dark brown, and her eyes were like chocolate. Her eyebrows were rather thick and met in the middle, so she looked like she was constantly frowning. Her nose and jaw were straight, and she was short, lithe, and incredibly muscular for a girl. Her lips, though, were exquisite: dark pink and beautifully shaped. Actually, she was kind of pretty, in her own way. She couldn’t be a day over fifteen, though. Which made Joly curious. Why was such a young girl, who didn’t seem poor, wandering the streets alone at night? It made no sense. 

 

“It is impolite to stare, Monsieur Joly.” Joly jumped. He hadn’t realized he had been staring! 

“Forgive me mademoiselle. I was just curious as to why you were out all alone last night.”

 

So Tamar told him. She told him about Spiro Vonnegut, and how he was still hunting for her, orphaned as she was. She told him how she had learned how to heal with herbs, and wandered the continent doctoring and playing the flute in the streets for money. As she spoke, Joly felt a strong surge of protectiveness towards the girl. She had been through so much, but she still soldiered on, determined to keep an honest life. She was remarkable, he decided. And he told her so. The girl blushed.

 

“I am far from remarkable, Joly. I just value my life.”

“Be that as it may, I am still proud to know you. Perhaps one day you can share some of your knowledge of herbs with me. I am a medical student,” he explained. She nodded.

“I’d be happy to. Speaking of students, I assume your friend Enjolras is one, judging by all the books he has. Where did he go?” Joly shrugged.

 

“I honestly don’t know. He didn;t say where he was going, or when he’d be back. He isn’t good with situations like this.” Tamar laughed, a bright, sparkling laugh.

“You’d think with a medical student for a friend, he’d get used to emergencies.” Joly shrugged.

“I agree, but it isn’t my place to judge. Now, do you have any things that we should bring here that you may need?”

“I have a trunk at an inn near the Corinthe,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll be needing it if I’m only staying a week.”

“I’ll tell Enjolras to get it, anyway. You may decide to stay longer, after all.”

 

Tamar couldn’t understand why she’d do that, but she nodded nonetheless. It wasn’t such a bad idea to have her things here, after all. It would save her the trouble of getting them when she left. Joly smiled, but suddenly, a door creaked quietly, making Tamar jump. Bidding her a hasty farewell, Joly picked up his medical bag and left the room. She could hear him speaking quietly with someone outside, and a moment later, the front door shut again. Tamar staggered out of the bed, and managed to stand upright as a man stepped into the room. When he turned to face her, she smiled.

“About time you showed up, Enjolras.”


	3. Chapter 3

If Enjolras was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. Instead, he set his bag on the floor and strode over to her. 

 

“I take it you’re feeling better, mademoiselle,” he said. Tamar blinked in surprise; he had a lovely voice- low and musical. 

“I am, thank you.” 

“Good,” he murmured distractedly, running a hand through his long golden curls. \

 

Tamar narrowed her eyes, studying the young man in front of her. With his sea-blue eyes, lovely hair, and slim, lean build, Enjolras was actually quite handsome. He looked exhausted, though, as though he, not Joly, had been up all night with her. Perhaps he had. It certainly seemed like that….

 

“Is there something wrong?” She jumped when Enjolras spoke She hadn’t meant to stare! 

“No-I-” she took a deep, slightly painful breath. “Yes, actually. Joly mentioned asking you about my trunk?” Seeing Enjolras’s noncommittal expression, Tamar shook her head. “You don’t have to get it, but...your friend said he’d ask, and-”

“I know. I was about to get it now.” Tamar smiled. 

“All right. Did Joly tell you where it is, or would you prefer it if I came with you?” 

“Not in your condition. I won’t allow it,” Enjolras said, frowning. “Joly told me where you said it was, but could you perhaps be more specific?”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Tamar dug a piece of paper and a stick of charcoal out of her trouser pocket and drew a small map of the inn, the Corinthe, and where she estimated the apartment to be.

“You know where the Corinthe is, I’m guessing?” Enjolras nodded. “Good.The inn is right across the street. Got that?”

“I know where the inn is.” Enjolras sounded faintly impatient. “I’ll be back in about half and hour. You’re welcome to help yourself to something to eat if there’s any food, but don’t leave the apartment.” And he left. Without the map. A second later, Tamar heard the front door slam.

 

“Charming,” she muttered. “And what does he mean, if there’s any food?” Tamar shrugged and made her way to the small kitchen, ignoring the pounding in her head. After all, it had been a couple of days since she’d last eaten. When she got there, her mouth dropped open.

 

“Damn. When was the last time someone was in here?” The kitchen was practically empty; some small cupboards, a table and two chairs, a counter, sink, and a hell of a lot of dust. Tamar opened one of the cupboards and found some pots, but nothing else. 

“Really?!”

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Enjolras, for his part, had no idea what was going on in his house at that moment. When he reached the inn, he strode right in to the front desk.

 

“Excuse me, but is there a girl staying here? I’ve come to pick up her things.” The young woman looked up from her book.

“We got a couple o’ girls. What’s she look like? What’s her name?” 

“It’s…” Enjolras frowned, realizing that he hadn’t asked the girl’s name. “I’m not sure. But she has dark hair, she’s rather short, dresses in men’s clothes?” The desk woman smiled.

“Oh, you mean Tammy? She hasn’t been in for a while, but her stuff’s still here. You her lover or something? She’s a little young for that, you know.”

 

Enjolras felt himself flush at the mere suggestion. He wasn’t anything of the sort! He hadn’t even known the girl for a day!

“Where is her room?” he asked through clenched teeth, not deigning to answer the woman’s question.”

“Second floor, two doors down on the left. Why do you need her stuff?” Again, Enjolras didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he strode up the stairs, ignoring the woman’s shouts of protest.

 

Second floor, two down on the left. When he reached the room, he grasped the handle of the door without hesitation and stepped inside. The musty smell of the room hit him like a wave, making him cough. Evidently, no one had been in here for a while. The trunk was still there, though, shut at the foot of the bed. Enjolras bent to pick it up, surprised at how light it was. What did the girl have in it? He set the trunk down again, running a hand through his hair. The girl was an enigma, without doubt. Perhaps her things could tell him more about her.

No, he told himself. That would be wrong. But…

 

Before he could change his mind, Enjolras dropped to his knees and opened the trunk. In it were several shirts, pairs of pants, vests, and two jackets, all neatly folded. There were also two bags, and a flute case. Enjolras lifted out the lighter bag first. It smelled strongly of herbs, and there were a lot of sealed paper packets , a small wooden bowl, a pestle, a wooden rod, and some roll of bandages inside. He shut the bag, feeling slightly perturbed. Was she some sort of healer? A witch doctor, perhaps? Who could guess?

The second bag’s contents were even stranger. It contained a compass, matches, a map of Europe with dots marking about twenty cities, a set of lock-picking tools, and three knives. With shaking hands, Enjolras dropped the bag into the trunk, a chill of foreboding crawling up his back. 

Why would such a young girl need to pick locks? The knives were obviously for defense, but they seemed rather superfluous, considering that he’d seen her take four grown men to the ground with her bare hands. 

Enjolras blew out a shaky sigh, passing a hand over his eyes. He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with this mystery right now. He hadn’t slept in two days, but at least the girl was awake now. Hopefully she wasn’t causing trouble.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

An hour later, Tamar sat back against the kitchen counter, proudly surveying her handiwork. She had cleaned the kitchen, washed and organized the cupboards, and bought some food at the market in the square near the Jardin du Luxembourg. Admittedly, she felt kind of bad about using Enjolras’s money to pay for it, but it was for him, too. She was beginning to get a bit worried, though. He should’ve been back by now.

 

Suddenly, the front door creaked, and shut. Tamar leaped to her feet, knocking a pot off the counter. CRASH! She winced, bending to pick it up, when the door slammed open.

 

“What was that?” Enjolras snapped, standing in the doorway with her trunk. Tamar hastily stood, replacing the pot in the cupboard and smiling cockily.

“Enjolras! Took you long enough to get here. You were so late, I cleaned your kitchen and replenished your food supply...what?”

 

Enjolras was glaring at her. “The state of my home isn’t really of your concern, mademoiselle,” he told her, rubbing his temples. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. It was in a state of horrid disrepair; I highly doubt you’ve used this place since you moved in. Am I right?” When he didn’t reply, Tamar grinned, displaying strong white teeth. “That’s what I thought.” 

 

They both stood there for a minute, not speaking. Finally, Enjolras sighed and picked up her trunk again.

“I’m putting this in the spare bedroom,” he explained in answer to her questioning look. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she replied, still unsure even though she had agreed to stay.

“Nonsense. You won’t be.” He sounded impatient again, as though he really didn’t want to deal with her at the moment. Tamar frowned at the dark circles under his eyes. 

“You should sleep,” she told him. “You’re practically dead on you feet.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replied. Tamar rolled her eyes.

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “You can’t fool me, you know. How long has it been since you’ve slept? Two days?” Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Tamar cut him off. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you get sick.” 

 

“If you’re worried about leaving me alone,” she added, “don’t be. I’ll just unpack my trunk. I won’t cause any trouble. Seeing that Enjolras was looking pensive, Tamar shrugged. “Think it over.” She knew better than to push. Instead, she watched his face, searching for any flicker of emotion that might give her an answer. Finally, he sighed.

 

“Very well.” Enjolras sounded a bit relieved. “If you need anything, I’ll be in my room.” She nodded.  
“Of course.” And they went their separate ways.


	4. Chapter 4

Tamar surveyed the spare room that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. It was small, but furnished with the basic necessities: a bed, a small wardrobe, and a desk with a chair. Satisfied with the looks of the place, she turned her attention to her trunk. 

She’d said she would unpack…but what if something happened, and she had to leave quickly? Better to leave her things where they were.

 

All right, she thought. That’s taken care of…. She opened the wardrobe. Empty, of course...but wait, there was something at the bottom. Reaching down, Tamar picked up a worn copy of Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality. It had to be Enjolras’s; she padded softly out of the room and opened the door to the room beside hers and left the book on the desk. Turning around, Tamar had to smile.

 

Enjolras had fallen asleep in his clothes, and his face was buried in the pillow, with his golden hair spread like a halo around his head.

 

“A regular angel, he is,” she whispered, smirking. “A sleeping Apollo.” And she had to shove her fist into her mouth to muffle her laughter. 

Glancing around the room, Tamar suddenly felt the childish urge to snoop around, see what kind of person her new flatmate was. After all, if there was one thing her father had taught her, it was that the best way to get to know a person was to examine their things and habits at close range.

The idea was childish, she knew. However, she really didn’t feel comfortable living with someone without knowing what they were like. So she stole over to the desk.

 

Unsurprisingly, the desk was a mess; it was so covered with books, papers, maps, and pens that she couldn’t see the wood. Tamar rolled her eyes. Enjolras obviously cared little for the state of his home or his things. She picked up one of the books- Second Treatise of Civil Government by Locke. There were two books by Rousseau, a French-English dictionary, and various essays about human rights, government, equality, and such.

Something of a revolutionary, then. Are you planning a rebellion, Monsieur? Tamar quickly sifted through some of the papers, frowning at what she saw.

 

About half were college essays, but the other half were angry letters to government officials and speeches. She skimmed one of these, and found the words of freedom and equality stirring her heart. It was easy to imagine Enjolras standing in front of a crowd, rallying the masses with words like these...if they could find it in their forlorn hearts to listen. 

She picked up something that looked like a hand-drawn street map, and shivered as she read the notes on it.

 

‘One in Gov. on our side...write to Lamarque. Plead for prostitute rights in court in referendum. Rally people...barricade?...’Ferre says to wait a couple of years. Too long...but we can get more support with more time. Bahorel found print shop-Lariviere’s. Gain support in Aix, Toulon, Lyons. R found wine shop near workers’ quarters-Corinthe. Possible meeting place?’

 

Rallies? Barricades?! Are they mad?! Tamar dropped the paper like a hot coal. Wait several years, my arse. Quixotic, he is. In the midst anger, she felt only confusion. 

Who was Lamarque? Who were ‘Ferre, Bahorel, and R? What referendum? What barricade? She sighed, aggressively running a hand over her face. She’d have to ask Enjolras about all this later. 

 

Tamar shoved the paper to the back of the desk, and paused, feeling something...like a latch. Frowning, she pulled it, and opened a small space, also filled with papers. 

“A secret drawer?” Clever, very clever indeed. Smiling, she pulled the papers out. A name on the note at the top of the stack caught her eye. She began to read.

 

September 15, La Maison Rouge, Bergerac, France

Dearest Emelian,

 

It has been so long since you’ve written, mon petit. I do hope you are well. 

Sadly, my own health had been failing for several years now, but I would be

immensely heartened if you came to visit. I know it has been seven years 

since you left, but I miss you, I really do!...Though I don’t know how your 

father would react. He was most upset my your...as you called it...escape.

Actually, he disowned you soon after you left, but please know that I had 

nothing to do with that decision and would welcome you back at any time,

so it is with a heavy heart that I must write these words.

I am dying. The doctors have given me two months, and I want you to 

come so that I may say good-bye.

With love,

Your maman, Madame Therese Girard-Enjolras

 

Tamar’s hands flew to her mouth. She couldn’t believe what she had just read. What kind of monster was she, reading something like that? 

Enjolras’s mother was dying, for God’s sake, and yet she still had enough love in her heart to write to her estranged son and beg him to say good-bye. It made her sick, knowing that she had pried into someone’s personal life like that. After all he’d done for her, too!

 

But even through these thoughts, Tamar’s mind was working furiously.Was there anything she could do to help? Or would it be better if she pretended that she’d never set eyes on the letter? The question is, what will hurt Enjolras more? After all, he wouldn’t have hidden the letter unless he wanted to forget about. That being said, he’d probably get angry if he found out she’d read it. But if he forgot and didn’t reply or go to his mother, the pain would be even greater when she died.

 

Tamar sighed, and looked up at the cracked ceiling. Please, she thought not knowing who she was praying to. Tell me what to do. 

 

Suddenly, a cry of fear jerked her out of her reverie. Tamar stared at the bed; Enjolras had begun thrashing wildly, and was whispering something she couldn’t make out. She ran to him, leaning closer.

“Please...please, father, I promise it won’t happen again...don’t do it, please don’t…” And suddenly he gasped, as though in pain, his hand clutching at his cheek.

Tamar began to gently stroke Enjolras’s damp curls, and grabbed his hand.

“Shh...it’s alright,” she murmured, as though comforting a child. “Your father can’t hurt you here; you’re safe with me. I promise I’ll protect you, mon ami, just as you protected me. “ And she didn’t hesitate for a moment before calling the young man her friend.

 

It didn’t take Enjolras long to calm down; after a few minutes, he settled into an uneasy sleep. Tamar let go of his hand and placed her cool fingers on his forehead, frowning at the heat she felt. She sighed; she had to think.

 

Enjolras had been begging his father to not do something, and then...it had seemed like he’d been hit. God knows, she’d been hit in the face just like that often enough by her own father. She knew what it felt like. That, combined with the remembrance of Enjolras being disowned, made Tamar realize that her benefactor had some serious family issues. Maybe he had been abused, just as she had. One more thing to ask, then. 

 

Glancing down, she wondered if the heat she had felt on his skin was a result of the dream, or something more. I hope he isn’t ill...I ought to wake him up...but that’s not fair.

 

Suddenly, a knock sounded from the front door. Tamar jumped, and ran out of the room; there was no way Enjolras would answer it. Whoever was at the door knocked again.

 

“Is anyone here? Enjolras, Joly...’Ferre, what was the name of the girl?”

“Tamar Kardashian.”

“Right...hello?”

 

Tamar frowned. ‘Ferre had been one of the names on that map, the one who had said to wait a few years before they...did whatever they planned to do. Apparently, he also knew her name. She wondered who the other man was. Only one way to find out….

She opened the door a crack. “Good evening, gentlemen. Might I have the pleasure of knowing who calls?”


	5. Chapter 5

Both men jumped back in surprise, but the shorter one with the dark curls and sparkling green eyes recovered quickly. He stepped inside, bowed with a flourish, and kissed Tamar’s hand.

 

“Enchante, mademoiselle,” he said, grinning. “My name is Gilles de Courfeyrac; you may call me Gilles, Courfeyrac, or Courf, if you are inclined to be familiar.” He winked suggestively. “I do hope that’s the case.”

 

“Stop flirting, Courf, you’ll frighten the girl.” The other man was rather nondescript; taller than Courfeyrac, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and glasses. His face was kind, though, and he spoke to his friend with fond exasperation.

 

Tamar smiled. “It’s quite all right, monsieur. I find your friend...charming.” 

Courfeyrac laughed brightly, poking his friend in the arm. “You see, ‘Ferre? Oh, forgive me, mademoiselle, for I have neglected to introduce my companion. This is Alain Combeferre, and you may call him-”

“Alain, Combeferre, or ‘Ferre.” Tamar smiled. “I know.”

 

Courfeyrac blinked, seemingly stunned at having his own words used against him, and Combeferre chuckled. “So, mademoiselle Tamar, I take it you are feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Your friend Joly is quite skilled. And please, no formalities. Call me Tamar.” 

She paused a moment, sizing up the two men. “You’re friends of Enjolras?”

 

“That we are.” Courfeyrac had recovered his flair, it seemed. “Although sometimes-” he leaned in close, fluttering his eyelashes. “He forgets that.

“So…” he began after a pause. “What’s it like, staying with our marble man?”

 

Combeferre rolled his eyes, and Tamar frowned in confusion. “Marble man? Why do you call him that?”

“You’ll soon find out,” Courfeyrac said, grinning roguishly. “No doubt you’ll curse him when you do, if you aren’t doing that already.”

 

Tamar stepped forward and discreetly jabbed the tease in the nerve above his elbow, and he gasped with pain. “Your opinion of your friends says many things about you, monsieur, and they are rather unflattering things indeed. Enjolras has been nothing short of civil. Speaking of that...did you wish to speak with him?”

“Yes, actually.” Combeferre looked past her, to the rest of the apartment. “Is he here?”

 

Tamar shrugged. “He’s asleep. Do you want me to wake him?”

The bespectacled man shook his head. “Non, it is fine.” He smiled. “He needs the rest, no doubt; he gets little enough even at the best of times.”

“Pity, that.” The fact that Combeferre alluded to her arrival as a bad time did not particularly bother Tamar at the moment. She shut the door, and spun to face the men once more.

 

“I am dreadfully sorry, gentlemen, but I have been a poor host thus far. Would you like to come in? Perhaps I can get you something to eat or drink?”

Combeferre politely declined, and Courfeyrac grinned again. “I have a better idea.” He turned to his friend and whispered something to him The other man left, and Courfeyrac turned to her, eyes twinkling.

 

“Now, mademoiselle.” He winked at her. “What say you to a little excursion?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the full names of all the Amis:  
> Emelian Enjolras  
> Alain Combeferre  
> Gilles de Courfeyrac  
> Marius Pontmercy  
> Galen Joly  
> Maximilien Bahorel  
> Lesgles de Meaux (Bossuet)  
> Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire  
> Raoul Grantaire  
> Tycho Feuilly


	6. Chapter 6

“Absolutely not!” Combeferre exclaimed. “For God’s sake, Courf, she’s injured. I absolutely forbid it!”

“Excuse me, monsieur.” Tamar stepped up to the tall man, looking up to meet his eyes. “I am perfectly capable of deciding for myself what I want to do. I’m fine, really.” More gently, she added, “It won’t be difficult to walk three blocks. You don’t have to worry.

“An exceptional speech,” Courfeyrac murmured. “To the Cafe Musain!”

 

The walk to the cafe wasn’t as long as Combeferre made it out to be. All the while, Tamar thought, barely noticing the sights around her. She was...nervous, actually. When Courfeyrac had suggested the trip so that she could “meet the rest of Les Amis,” she had almost refused. It wasn’t that she was worried about what kind of men they were; if they were Enjolras’s friends, they were probably good men. That fact made it worse, actually. There was no telling how long she could stay here; Vonnegut could find her at any time. It was best not to get too attached to anyone. It only made the inevitable leaving harder.

 

“We have arrived!” Courfeyrac burst out, startling Tamar from her thoughts. “Why the long face, mademoiselle, you are about to meet some of the best men in France!”

Wonderful, she thought. I’m thrilled.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Combeferre muttered.

Courfeyrac laughed brightly. “Be that as it may…”. He held open the door to the cafe. “Entrez-vous, mademoiselle. Your fate awaits.” And he smiled, like a cat in a fish market.

 

The cafe was dimly lit, smoky, and crowded. Cool autumn air and evening light from outside flowed in through the open door, and the smell of food and liquor made Tamar’s mouth water. But Courfeyrac and Combeferre led her away from the main room, down a dark hallway, and into a backroom. There were seven men in the shockingly bright space: one at the bar, clutching a bottle of whiskey, and the other six at a table. Four were playing cards, and the other two were watching, although one of them would stop every so often and scribble something in a notebook.

 

“Gentlemen!” Courfeyrac boomed. The others, aside from the drunk, turned to look, gawking at the odd party.

 

“About time you showed up, Courf,” one of the cardplayers grumbled. He was quite handsome, with short chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. “Bahorel’s been bankrupting us all.”

 

Bahorel. The print-shop man. The largest of the men, with a fiery red ponytail, shrugged amiably.

“Not my fault if you’re goddamned awful at poker, Marius,” he said. The observer without the notebook turned to her, and Tamar smiled when she recognized Joly. The medical student grinned.

“Mademoiselle Tamar! What a surprise...you shouldn’t be out of the apartment!”

 

Tamar shrugged. “Your friend Courfeyrac is quite persuasive.” Joly glared at him, and Courfeyrac, at least, had the decency to blush.

“She’s fine, Joly. Besides, with two medical students in the room, she’ll be well taken care of if anything...unusual happens. Now, Tamar- lovely name, by the way- allow me to introduce you to everyone here.”

 

Courfeyrac took her right over to the table. “All right...you already know Joly. 

“This lovely fellow,” he said, clapping the handsome cardplayer on the shoulder, “is Marius Pontmercy. This is Bahorel.” The tall redhead took Tamar’s hand and kissed it, and she raised her eyebrows. “This is Lesgle de Meaux.” The man to Bahorel’s right doffed his patched cap, and to Tamar’s surprise, he was balding.

“Call me Bossuet,” he said. “Everyone does.” Tamar nodded, and Courfeyrac continued.

 

“This fellow here is Jehan Prouvaire.” The man with the notebook looked up, his long blond hair falling into his hazel eyes. He smiled sweetly, and he, too, kissed her hand. She smiled back.

“The man at the bar is Grantaire, and usually he would be singing or quoting Shakespeare and the like, but I suppose he is rather subdued tonight.” 

Tamar studied Grantaire, who looked to be asleep. His tangled black curls obscured his face, but she could see the line of a long nose peeking out.

 

“Finally, this is Feuilly.” 

When she looked at Feuilly, Tamar couldn’t suppress a gasp. That face…she knew that face. Those green cat-eyes, the fine, wavy, light brown hair, the sharp, delicate features. She’d recognize that face anywhere…

 

Five years earlier…

Tamar stared in horror at the man who stood over her dead parents. Dripping knife in hand, Spiro Vonnegut stalked towards her with catlike grace, silent and beautiful like the demon he was.

“Pity, truly,” he whispered, his rasping voice grating her ears. “You are so young, so pretty. So much potential in you. Shame to let it go unseen.” And he smiled coldly. “No use trying to run, liebchen.” He was looming over her now. “You’re mine.”

 

Suddenly, Tamar rolled between the murderer’s legs and kicked him in the back, knocking him flat. He scrambled up, cursing, and rounded on her, his green cat-eyes flashing dangerously. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in, setting the knife to her throat.

 

“Please, Herr Vonnegut, have mercy!” she cried. “Have you no love in you? No pity for a child? No bonds to anyone?”

 

Vonnegut didn’t flinch. No, instead he pulled her closer, causing the knife to indent the skin.

“To love is to be weak,” he told her. “You would have done well to remember that.”

 

“That would make me a monster,” Tamar whispered, defiant despite the blood trickling down her throat. “Like you.”

“I did love someone once.” The German’s eyes clouded over, although his grip never slackened. “My half brother. But he is dead to me now, as you will be dead.”

“What was his name?” Tamar asked, playing for time. Not that it would do any good.

“Tycho. We had the same mother. He is fifteen now, full grown. He does not need me.” His eyes grew cold. “And I DO NOT NEED HIM!” 

 

The knife dug further into her throat, but at the sight of the blood, Vonnegut froze. “No,” he whispered. “Just a child...as he was…”

 

The moment’s hesitation was all Tamar needed. She kicked the vile man between the legs. Cursing, the assassin stumbled, and she twisted from his grasp, punching him in the sinus cavity.

“Lights out,” she whispered. Ten minutes. She had ten minutes, at the most, until he woke. 

 

Tamar ran into her tiny room, grabbed her flute, some money, and some tools, and threw them into a small trunk. 

Running back, she grabbed Vonnegut by the ankles and dragged him outside, leaving him in the half-toxic mud behind the tannery. She had to run….

 

“Tamar? Mademoiselle, are you alright?” 

 

Tamar jumped, meeting nine pairs of concerned eyes. Joly took her hand. “Are you alright?” he asked again.

She took a deep breath, shaking her head to clear away the memories. “Fine,” she whispered. Then, louder, “I’m fine.”

“You look as though you were going to faint,” Combeferre told her. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she replied, feeling her heart slow. “I just…remembered something, is all.”

 

Bahorel nudged Feuilly, grinning. “He remind you of an old sweetheart, cherie?” He burst out laughing. “‘Course he did, with that face!”

 

Tamar forced herself to smile. “Something of the like”

 

The men laughed, and Courfeyrac pulled her to sit beside him at the card table, insisting she join their game, teamed up with him. Bossuet quickly lost all his money, and Courfeyrac and Tamar steadily bankrupted all the others, even the wily and tenacious Bahorel.

 

After an hour, they had won a tidy sum. Courf and Bahorel insisted on buying supper for “the lady,” but she refused to accept fully, sharing the goods with the others. 

 

They were friendly, these men; interesting, funny, and mostly well-mannered. Tamar wished that they were perhaps less so, because she could feel a companionship growing with these men that she could not afford. 

She noticed, however, the Feuilly avoided her for the duration of the night; he wouldn’t talk to her, or even look at her.

 

Had he recognized her somehow, as she had him? How? They’d never met. Tamar had only recognized him because his resemblance to Spiro Vonnegut was uncanny. Feuilly must be Vonnegut’s brother. There’s no way in hell that he can be anything else.

 

The men were ignoring her now. Bahorel must’ve been drunk, because he was shouting at Marius and trying to hit him, and Combeferre was holding him back with only moderate success. Tamar had to smile at their antics. 

No wonder Enjolras doesn’t associate with them often, she thought. They’re a bunch of damn lovable scoundrels. Their personalities don’t match at all. 

Scoundrels they may be, but how she wished she could get closer to them. But she couldn’t risk it.

 

“Mademoiselle Tamar?” She jumped, glancing up to meet the green eyes of the very man who had been avoiding her all night.

“Monsieur Feuilly. Can I help you?” She kept her tone guarded, her face expressionless.  
“Could we...talk? Alone?”


	7. Chapter 7

Feuilly led her outside, but when he turned into a side alley, Tamar stopped cold. All her instincts screamed that this was wrong, that Feuilly could very well be leading her into an ambush. The alley was pitch black, too; all the more reason not to go in.

 

Feuilly turned to her. “Are you coming, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

Tamar bit her lip. “Out here is fine, Monsieur. There’s no need to go in there.”

“For discretion’s sake, we must. People come in and out of the cafe all the time. It’s best to talk where no one can see us.”

“But if we also cannot see each other, there is no point,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t trust you, monsieur. We’ll go farther.”

 

Tamar and Feuilly walked to the Jardin du Luxembourg, with Feuilly striding ahead and Tamar going watchfully behind. Neither spoke.

 

When they arrived, Tamar’s eyes widened, and she drew in a shocked breath. The garden was beautiful; the moonlight made the dying flowers and statues shine, and the still fountains glittered with light and ice. The whole place exuded an air of mystery and grace, and she had to blink back tears.

 

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

“Indeed.” Feuilly’s voice came from a bench about ten feet away. “But we have not come for sightseeing, mademoiselle.”

“Of course,” Tamar replied tersely. She went over to the bench, but remained standing. When Feuilly motioned for her to sit, she shook her head. He sighed.

 

“I’ll be brief,” he said. “When Courf introduced me, you paled, like you were afraid. Why?”

“I recognized your face.” And accent, she added silently. Everything about you bears an uncanny likeness to HIM.

“My face?” Feuilly laughed nervously. “Mademoiselle, I don’t recall ever having seen you before in my life!”

“Nor I you.”

“Then how-”

“Not you.” Tamar met his green eyes, her face deadly serious. “Your brother.”

 

“What are you talking about? I do not have a brother! Mademoiselle, this is ridiculous!”

“You’re lying, monsieur. Don’t try to fool me.” Tamar lowered her voice to a deep, eerie whisper. “I can always tell.”

 

Feuilly’s face turned red, and he had to wait a moment before speaking. “Mademoiselle, I-you-why would I lie? I speak the truth! 

“Perhaps,” he added coldly, “Your injuries are affecting your judgement more than you thought.”

 

Tamar stared at him in shock. How dare he presume that! “I assure you, monsieur, that my judgement is perfectly sound!” she snapped. “You cannot lie to me. Now, look me in the eyes and tell me that you do not know Spiro Vonnegut!”

 

Feuilly started to rise in apparent anger, but Tamar fixed him with such a cold glare that he sank back down. Defeated, he placed his face in his hands.

 

“How do you know him?” he asked quietly. “It has been so long since I’ve seen him...How does he fare?”

“I don’t know, nor do I care. In fact, I’d like nothing more than to see that bastard dead.” 

 

She spoke true, but she was also testing Feuilly, seeing how he would react to such a statement. His previous words did not necessarily prove anything.

 

This time, Feuilly did leap to his feet, and he grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes.”What are you talking about? What has he done?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” He looked more perplexed than irate now.

 

Tamar sighed. “He is your brother, yes?” At Feuilly’s nod, she motioned for him to sit again, and turned to gaze at the shining gardens. Such beauty...it should not have to bear witness to such an ugly confession.

“You have a murderer’s blood, monsieur,” she said softly. “Vonnegut killed my parents. He would’ve killed me, too, if I hadn’t escaped. He’s still after me.”

“What?” Feuilly’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. “That...that cannot be true, Spiro is mo murderer! He would protect me with his life! He’d do the same for anyone else!

“He’s changed, apparently.” Tamar didn’t bother trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

“Are you sure...perhaps you are speaking of the wrong man. There could easliy be more than one Spiro Vonnegut in Europe…”

“Doubtful.” Seeing the pain in Feuilly’s eyes, Tamar sat down and placed a hand on his shoulder. For your sake, I wish I was mistaken, but it is him. He told me about you as he was about to slit my throat.”

 

He would kill one while speaking of another that he’d die for. What a sick thing to do.

 

If Feuilly had looked pained before, he looked positively shattered now. Tamar thought that he might either start screaming at her again or cry, but instead he looked deep into her eyes.

“Why?” he whispered.

“I’m not sure. My father had had some dealings with him in the past, and I suppose he got sick of the competition. So he killed him to eliminate him as a potential threat. My mother just happened to get in the way.”

“Gott im Himmel,” Feuilly murmured, and Tamar felt a shiver run down her spine when she heard the German words. “Mademoiselle, I...don’t know what to say.”

“Then make no sound,” she replied harshly. She needed neither apologies nor pity, though one or the other was imminent. 

 

Feuilly nodded, but then he grabbed her hand. “Mademoiselle, please believe me when I say that the man that I call brother would never have done this, and that I had no knowledge of anything that transpired in the past several years. Something happened, I don’t know what, but please, trust that I would never do anything similar. I am quits with my brother now, and after hearing your story, I am ashamed to share blood with him. Can you believe me?”

 

Tamar listened to this speech -a long one for the quiet worker- with no expression. She wanted to believe him, but the memories of Vonnegut were too fresh in her mind, fresh and dripping with her family’s blood. 

 

She wrenched her hand from Feuilly’s grasp, and sighed, turning away from him. He is a good, honorable man, she thought. Not like Vonnegut, as he says. On the other hand, he could be lying...but…

 

“I believe you,” she told him huskily. “And...I apologize for distrusting you so openly. It was rude of me, and you did not deserve it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I thank you for giving me this chance. I apologize also, for any harsh words on my end.

 

Tamar smiled. “It is behind us now, I believe. But I will hold you to your words,” she added, half-serious. She stood and cheekily offered Feuilly her arm. “We’d best return to the cafe, monsieur. It is late, and the others must be wondering where we are.”

 

Feuilly laughed as he took her arm. “I agree, meine Freundin. Let us go.” 

 

The two, once wary, now friends, walked off into the night, leaving heavier topics of discussion behind to be washed away by the gentle moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> 'Gott im Himmel-' German for 'God in Heaven'  
> 'meine Freundin-' German for 'my friend' (feminine)


	8. Chapter 8

When the pair arrived at the cafe, Feuilly moved to hold the door for Tamar, indicating that she should proceed with a sweep of his slender hand.

 

“Entrez, s’il vous-plait, mademoiselle,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes that belied his formal tone.

 

Tamar made him a mock bow, and stepped through, only to stumble over a crack in the floor. She let out a little gasp, and Feuilly promptly picked her up, bridal-style, and crossed the threshold into the cafe’s main room.

He then set her down, and bowed to the cheering men who had watched this gallant display. Tamar, though her face was flaming, curtsied. Someone whistled, and she felt her face flush.

 

Feuilly led the way to the back room, but Tamar stepped in front of the door before he could enter.

 

“Why did you do that? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” 

 

Now that they were away from the other customers, Tamar felt angry at Feuilly for making a spectacle of her like that. What must those men have been thinking? She didn’t even want to know!

 

“I...I do not know….”

 

*Feuilly’s POV*

 

Why, indeed? What had come over me, that I would be so bold? Mein Gott, if Courfeyrac had seen that, he’d be splitting his sides laughing. Why had I done that? 

 

The answer, however, was obvious, much as I tried to deny it. The girl. There was something...intriguing about her. 

She really was a mystery- a stranger to France, as I was. She spoke German, as did I. I saw in her a kindred spirit!

Those dark, smoldering features made her seem like someone from the exotic East; perhaps she was even a Gypsy. And that voice! Every word she spoke was music! 

 

Nein! I thought suddenly. I cannot fall in love with this girl! She was too young, too unpredictable. She’d said it herself, Spiro was still after her. She couldn’t stay here forever. And when she left, I’d never see her again. 

No, I could not let myself grow too attached to her. It would hurt too much.

 

“Feuilly?” Her voice cut into my musings, and I closed my eyes for a moment, reveling in the sound. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, mademoiselle. I was merely thinking.” Could she hear it? Could she sense the adoration I had for her?

“If you say so.” She didn’t sound convinced. Damn it, why did she have to be so perceptive?

 

*End Feuilly’s POV*

 

Tamar wasn’t sure what had happened. Feuilly seemed to be arguing with himself, but if he didn’t want to reveal what he was thinking, that was his choice.

 

“No point in just standing here,” she said. “Let’s go.”

 

They actually managed to slip in unnoticed The others had moved around a bit. Combeferre, Marius, Jehan, and Joly were playing cards at a corner table. 

At the bar, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and the other man, Grantaire, had shot glasses and bottles in front of them. They were talking and laughing loudly, and occasionally, one of them would down a shot.

 

“What are they doing?” Tamar asked, stifling her laughter as Grantaire stumbled and spilled wine all over himself.

 

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “It’s a drinking game.”

“What exactly is the point of it?”

“Last one standing wins.”

 

“Well!” Both of them turned, only to find Courfeyrac standing on the bartop, arms spread wide and glass in hand. “They’re back! Enjoy your tryst, mes amis?”

“Mon dieu, Courf, get down from there! You’ll kill yourself!” Combeferre exclaimed.

 

“Nonsense, I’m per...pef...perfectly fine, thank you! Never been-” Courfeyrac suddenly staggered and pitched off the bar, landing with a crash behind it “-better!” 

 

The four sober men exchanged glances with Tamar and Feuilly. Bossuet leaned over the counter to peer at Courfeyrac.

 

“You alright, Courf?” The bald man was practically lying across the countertop by now.

“Bossuet, be careful!” Joly cried. “You’re going to-”

“Aii!” CRASH! Everyone in the room winced as he went over the edge. “I’m alright!”

 

“Welcome to Les Amis de l’ABC,” Feuilly remarked dryly.

 

It was almost midnight when everyone left the cafe. Combeferre and Marius carried an unconscious Courfeyrac between them. Joly fretted over Bossut like an anxious mother hen, and Jehan and Feuilly tried to help Grantaire- who alternated between insisting he was fine, singing Chevaliers de la Table Ronde, and stroking Jehan’s hair- and Bahorel, who swatted Feuilly when he tried to help him.

 

Tamar bade the men farewell at their respective homes, until only Combeferre remained. He had insisted on accompanying her to Enjolras’s apartment, despite her protests. Now the two walked in companionable silence as the night flowed gently past them.

 

“Les Amis de l’ABC,” Tamar mused aloud. “Why do you call yourselves that?”

 

Combeferre began to talk then. He explained that they were a group that worked for the poor and oppressed, to gain them equality and rights.

“The abaisse, you know,” he said, gesturing excitedly with his hands as he spoke. “The abased. A-bai-sse, A-B-C. The name stands for those we represent!”

 

Enjolras was the leader, the driving force behind this revolutionary group. He was the one who spoke to the masses, rallying them to fight for their rights. the radical. The fire. The sun.

Combeferre was the guide, the voice of reason. He was a pacifist, like a summer breeze to temper Enjolras’s storm.

Courfeyrac was the center. He was the one to befriend both supporter and critic, because he was liked by all. He was also, according to Combeferre, their resident flirt and partyer.

Grantaire was the cynic. He thrived on argument and witticism, and took every chance he got to grant Enjolras fault. At the same time, he worshipped the very ground the leader stood upon. He believed in nothing, and yet he stayed.

Feuilly was the voice of the workers. A fan-maker, an autodidact.

“He’s as poor as the dirt on his boots,” Combeferre mused, “But you’ll not find a kinder and more faithful man anywhere.”

Bahorel was alternately an agent and a brawler. He had the most contact with other rebel groups, and could always be counted on to find reliable printers or meeting-places. He was just as good at getting into fights.

Joly was the hypochondriac, Bossuet the ill-fated. Between the two, they had an unbreakable friendship. Joly, instead of fretting over himself, could fret over Bossuet, whose incredible bad luck got him into the worst scrapes. they also shared a great loyalty to the cause.

Jehan was the poet, the romantic, the dreamer. His colorful, disorganized, Bohemian demeanor reflected the brilliance of his young mind, and his sweet tenor voice could often be heard serenading the beauty he saw in everything.

Last was Marius, the Bonapartist, or, as the Southern-born Enjolras called him, Buonapartist. He was the rookie, unsure yet where his loyalties lay.

“He may not stay to fight with us,” Combeferre told he, “But I’ll respect his decision, whatever it may be. He is a good man; he’ll do what he feels is best.”

 

They would fight. They would rise up against the placid new king, Louis-Philippe, with his bourgeois monarchy and corrupt laws, and fight to free the people.

“But not yet. We have much work to do before then.”

 

Combeferre finished speaking just as they reached the apartment building. Tamar climbed the stone steps, and bowed to the older man, a smile on her dark face.

“Thank you, Combeferre. That made for quite an interesting trip.”

“We have a ways to go yet. I’ll see you to the apartment.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine on my own.”

 

Combeferre looked a bit skeptical, but he nodded. “If you’re sure,” he said. “Bonne nuit, mademoiselle. I hope we meet again soon.”

 

Tamar grinned. “I hope the same.”

 

Combeferre turned to go, and Tamar slipped into the building. The landlady was nowhere in sight; probably she was asleep at home. Soundless as a shadow, she crept up the stairs to the second floor.

Enjolras’s door was locked, but that was no great obstacle for her. She smiled ruefully as she inserted the thin wire into the lock.

 

Breaking in like some sort of thief. She sighed. At least this way, I won't wake Enjolras up. Still, picking the lock of a friend’s door felt wrong.

 

The lock clicked, and Tamar put the wire back into her pocket as she let herself in. The house was silent as a tomb and pitch dark, but her keen eyes could just pick out shapes in the gloom.

Silently, she opened Enjolras’s door. She could see his outline, sprawled over the bed with half of his lean frame hanging off the edge. She bit her lip to hide her laughter, and shut the door.

“You look so peaceful now, monsieur,” she whispered. The memory of his earlier nightmare had not faded from her mind.

 

She slid into the spare bedroom and made for her trunk. Feeling around, she took out a match and struck it, holding it to a candle on the desk.

 

Soft light flooded the room, and Tamar stuck the match in her mouth, extinguishing the flame. Smiling, she threw the spent match away and stripped down until she was standing in the near dark with nothing on but the bindings around her chest and a pair of skintight, knee-length silk leggings that she had bought off a Gypsy in Sadowa. 

She felt free, like a spirit, and jumped into a backflip, delighting in her agility.

 

Blowing out the candle, she collapsed into bed, feeling the exhaustion from the day’s exploits. In spite of everything, she was...happy. The amis were great men, and to have their friendship felt incredible.

 

Que será, será, she thought. Let Hell and high water come. I’ll be ready...mes nouveaux amis et moi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!
> 
> Que será, será- Spanish for ‘what will be, will be
> 
> Mes nouveaux amis et moi- French for I and my new friends
> 
> Mein Gott- German for my God
> 
> Entrez, s’il vous-plait- French for please enter
> 
> Nein- German for no
> 
> Bonne nuit- French for good night


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, Tamar woke with the sun, and threw the blankets off. Arching her body like a bow, she leaped out of bed, and noted with satisfaction that any lingering pains from yesterday seemed to have vanished.

 

She ran lightly to the window and opened it wide, leaning out to fully absorb the cool morning air.

 

It was so early that Paris was still and hushed, like a dream-town. The rising sun cast blurred shadows on the buildings and streets, and in the dim light, Tamar could see ragged forms huddled in doorways and alleys.

 

The oppressed. Of course she had seen the destitute before; they were everywhere. But the poor of Paris seemed particularly worn and hopeless. 

Tamar felt a twinge of guilt. She might walk the streets like any vagrant, but at least she had decent clothing, and a means of income to procure food and lodgings. She probably lived like the bourgeoisie compared to the people she could see on the streets now. No wonder they hated the monarchy.

 

A dark flash on the horizon drew Tamar’s attention away from the street. Singing merrily, a lark dipped and weaved through the sky, and came to rest on top of the shutter. Humming softly, she crept towards it, grinning when the songbird hopped onto her finger. The lark flapped its wings, seemingly pleased with its new perch.

 

“Bonjour, petit,” she whispered. “And how are you this morning?” The bird tipped its head to one side and trilled. “You’re fine, yes? Birds don’t have to worry about the troubles of men.”

 

Bird and girl regarded each other curiously. After a while, the lark got bored and trilled again, moving its little feet restively on her hand.

 

Tamar laughed. “Stay still, alouette.” The bird pecked her finger. “Bâtard.” 

 

She glanced back into the room, and smiled slyly. The bird, sensing her mischievous mood, hopped up and down.

“Venez avec moi, petit. We have a revolutionary to wake up.” 

 

Tamar tiptoed out of the room, humming again to keep the bird calm. The hall was still dark, but she could hear sounds coming from Enjolras’s room The bird whistled.

“Shh. You have to be quiet, petit, or this won’t work.” It nodded its head. “You understand? Good.”

 

A door opened and closed. Probably le salle de bains...perfect. Tamar slid into Enjolras’s and hid beside the closed bathroom door. Ten minutes later, Enjolras walked out, damp and shirtless.

“Fly, petit!” she whispered, and threw up her hand. The bird flew up over the door, straight towards Enjolras’s head.

 

“Merde!” Enjolras ducked, but the bird dived at him again. “What the- fils de pute!”

 

Tamar couldn’t hold back any longer. She burst out laughing, falling to her knees. Red-faced, Enjolras spun around; his blue eyes widened, then narrowed angrily.

“Tamar, you- why did you-” The bird, seeing his attention diverted, sat on his head. “Argh!”

 

Tamar wiped her eyes. “Enjolras, that was brilliant! Your face was priceless!”

 

The revolutionary swatted at the bird. “That wasn’t funny, mademoiselle,” he snapped.

“Someone’s irritable today,” she replied, still laughing.

If it was possible, Enjolras looked even less amused. “What are you wearing, mademoiselle?” 

“What kind of question is that? I’m…” She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing that she was still in her underclothes. “Oh.”

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow.

“I just woke up,” she said defensively.

Both eyebrows raised.

“Don’t look at me like that. Might I point out, monsieur, that you are only half-clothed yourself?”

“I do believe, mademoiselle, that it is somewhat socially acceptable for men to be seen shirtless throughout Europe,” he replied sardonically.

“It matters not! At least we both have an excuse. You evidently, have just bathed, and have not yet had the chance to dress.”

“And whose fault is that?” Enjolras muttered, stepping away to grab a shirt from the wardrobe.

 

Tamar put on her most innocent expression “Not mine, I hope.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras did not speak as he dressed, but instead concentrated wholly on buttoning his shirt and lacing his black boots. “And yours?” he inquired after a time.

“My what?”

“Your excuse for your state of undress.” The student put on a black waistcoat and a dark green jacket, both of which hugged his slim frame incredibly well, and contrasted nicely with his tan trousers.

 

“I told you. I just recently awoke-”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” he scoffed.

“Don’t interrupt! Yes, I do expect you to believe it, because it’s true. I simply woke, and forget to dress. 

“I would have,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak again, “but this prank distracted me, as you are doing now.”

 

With a wink to show that she was teasing, Tamar slipped out of Enjolras’s room before he could blink. She laughed lightly as she entered her own room- she could hear her housemate muttering angrily under his breath.

 

Nothing nice to say about me, I’m sure, she thought. Ah, well. That joke did him good. She grinned, imaging the faces of the amis when they heard about this. How they would laugh! It was almost enough to make her feel sorry for Enjolras. Almost.

 

The lark was outside now; it had evidently tired of Enjolras’s room. Tamar crossed to the window.

“Au revoir, petit!” she called. Merci beaucoup!” The bird trilled one last time before disappearing into the orange Parisian sky.

 

Turning away from the window, Tamar picked up yesterday’s clothes and tossed them onto the chair; she’d wash them later. Bending over, she pulled some light brown pants, a white shirt, and a pale blue waistcoat from her trunk, and set them onto the bed. After washing up and combing her hair, she quickly dressed, and hopped to the kitchen, lacing up her own black boots as she did so. Enjolras was already there, boiling some water.

 

“Good morning,” she said, as though their earlier incident had never happened.

 

Enjolras nodded at her, but did not look up from his book. When the water boiled, he took it off the stove, ground some coffee beans, mixed the brew, and returned to his reading.

 

“What is that book?” Tamar asked, slicing some hard cheese and a baguette.

“A military history of France,” came the curt reply.

“Sounds very interesting.” She offered the plate of bread and cheese to the student, but he shook his head.

“Indeed.” Suddenly, Enjolras glanced at his watch and stood. Draining the rest of his coffee, he set the mug on the counter and grabbed his leather bag, shoving the book inside it. “I am sorry to leave so abruptly, but I must be going.”

“Going where?” Tamar asked, even though she was pretty sure she knew.

The look Enjolras gave her told her that he too, thought she should know. “The university.”

“Now? It isn’t even six o'clock!”

“Yes, now.” That impatient edge from yesterday was back in his low voice. “I have morning classes today, and three exams this afternoon. I need to study.”

“Do you?” Tamar stood, eyeing his in disbelief. “And just how do you expect to do well on an exam if you’ve had nothing by way of nourishment but half a mug of coffee?”

“How do you expect to take on five men in a fight if you’ve eaten nothing for two days ere the encounter?” he retorted, eyes flashing inexplicably.

 

Tamar gritted her teeth. That was a low blow, and Enjolras knew it. “That’s different,” she replied, feeling her anger grow.

“Is it?” Enjolras’s voice was rising. “How?”

“I had no choice!” Tamar snapped. “I’m used to it!”

“That doesn’t make it right!” The two combatants were close now, with Tamar having to stare up to meet Enjolras’s smoldering dark eyes.

 

“If you think,” she said coldly, “that refusing to take care of yourself is somehow going to help the people. then you’re wrong. You’re wrong, do you hear me?!” She was yelling now, her voice cracking out like a whip. “You will never understand their suffering! You will never feel their despair! You will not save them!” She took a step closer to him, her eyes level with his tanned, olive-toned throat.

 

“You will not save them,” she whispered, spent. “They will not listen.”

 

“No.” Enjolras was whispering now, too. “No, it is you who is wrong. I do feel their pain. Every day, I feel their pain.” He closed his eyes, turned away from her “Every goddamned day.”

 

He whipped back around, and there was no fire in his eyes now. Only ice. Cutting, burning ice.

“How can you understand what I feel? You speak as you do because you are one of them. You are one of them, and you sympathize. How do you think I feel, watching these people suffer, knowing that I will never truly understand? Knowing that I am powerless to stop it?”

 

Tamar didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She could only, and Enjolras advanced towards her, the ice giving way to fire once more.

 

“I know I am powerless! Alone, I have no strength! But I am not alone! I have others who will aid me in my cause!” He drew himself up to his full height. “I will see this suffering end!” he roared. 

 

Enjolras was, at that moment, reminiscent of a saint- a warring angel banishing a demon to the darkest depths of Hell and beyond.

 

“I will see it end,” he repeated softly, “or so help me, I will die trying.”

 

Still Tamar said nothing. What could she say? She had misjudged the strength of Enjolras’s passion, the depth of his faith. She had misjudged him.

 

“I don’t doubt it,” she whispered. Brown eyes locked with blue, and at that moment, every bad word between them- all the tension, all the doubt- it all disappeared. “I have faith in you. And I swear to help your cause in any way I can.”

“You already have.” Enjolras took her hand, bending down to look straight into her eyes. “You already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!
> 
>  
> 
> Petit- Little one
> 
> Alouette- Lark
> 
> Bonjour- Hello or good day
> 
> Bâtard- Bastard
> 
> Venez avec moi- Come with me
> 
> Merde- Shit
> 
> Fils de pute- Son of a bitch
> 
> Au revoir- Good-bye
> 
> Merci beaucoup- Thank you very much
> 
>  
> 
> A note on Enjolras’s appearance: I know that many accounts describe him as having pale skin, and presumably, pale blue eyes as well. I took some liberties, here’s why:
> 
> •  
> Remember how in chapters 1 and 3 I described him as having ‘sea-blue eyes?’ Readers are free to imagine sea-blue however they want, but I picture it as being a rather dark dark blue-green. Therefore, his eyes can be described as dark.
> 
>  
> 
> • In this story, Enjolras is from Bergerac, which is in the south of France. People from the south tend to have dark hair, skin, and eyes, possibly because of Moorish ancestors. Since Enjolras has blond hair and blue eyes, he is presumably not Moorish, but he still has the tanned, olive-ish complexion of the South.
> 
> That's all! Bye!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of caution: This chapter is a flashback. It doesn’t contain one, it is one; it occurs right after Chapter 8. It also contains terrorizing of innocent young women and murder. If any of these things bother you, I might recommend skipping this chapter, even though it is rather important to future events in the story. You have been warned.

The previous night…

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He slipped soundlessly from shadow to shadow like a dark spirit of old. Before him, the inn looms tall, the dark wood door resembling a tightly closed mouth.The shuttered windows are like eyes, and the twinkling stars above watch him, revealing his every move to those who might be watching.

 

He can smell the people who are sleeping in the streets. Those wretched fools. He smiles, revealing sharp, white, animalistic teeth. They could’ve been warm tonight, if only they’d taken another route. A more...sinister route, if you will.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

He stole towards the alley behind the inn, and hauled himself up the side of the dilapidated building. He needed a window...There! Climbing up to the ledge, he forced his narrow shoulders through the gap, landing gracefully on the other side.

 

He was in the lobby. At the desk, a sleepy young woman flicked aimlessly through the guest log. The man smiled again. Endlich, he had found his target.

 

“Entschuldigen sie, fraulein, but I do believe I am in need of your assistance.”

 

The girl jumped, dropping the logbook. “Who’s there?” she cried. “Show yourself!”

“Distress does not become you, liebchen,” he replied. “You need not fear.”

“Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

“Information.” He stepped out of the shadows, striding silently, ghost-like, to the desk. The girl, at the sight of the black-clothed, masked man, screamed and cowered from him. Only his eyes stood out in the candlelight, glowing ominously.

 

“Now,” he purred, sliding a hand lovingly over the knife in his pocket. “I understand that there is a girl staying here. A girl named Tamar Kardashian.”

“She’s...she’s not here,” said the girl, her voice trembling.

“What do you mean, liebchen?” he asked, his voice cold and deadly quiet.

“She’s not here. She hasn’t been here for days! A man came today and took her things.”

“Who?”

“Je ne sais pas, monsieur.”

“Don’t lie to me, fraulein,” he whispered.

“I’m not lying, I swear!” she screamed. “I’d never seen him before in my life. And I told you,. Tamar hasn’t been here for days!”

“It is no use trying to protect them,” he said, moving closer. “I will find them no matter what.”

“Why-why do you need to find them?” the girl asked, shaking visibly.

“It is of no consequence to you.”

 

He took the final step and vaulted over the desk. The girl screamed, but choked herself off when he pressed the blade of his knife to her throat.

 

“You will tell me what I wish to know,” he murmured pleasantly. “Else you will not be pleases with the results.” He pressed the blade in tighter. “Tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Such a shame,” he whispered. “A shame, indeed, that I don’t believe you.” And he calmly slit her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!
> 
> Endlich- German for ‘at last’
> 
> Entschuldigen sie- German for ‘excuse me’
> 
> Fraulein- German word for an unmarried woman
> 
> Liebchen- I used this word in an earlier chapter, and forgot to translate it. German for ‘beloved’
> 
> Je ne sais pas- French for ‘I don’t know’


	11. Chapter 11

Only after Enjolras left did Tamar remember that she’d forgotten to ask him about the note and the dream.

 

“Damn it!” Standing still, she cocked her head and listened to Enjolras’s fading footsteps in the hall. When she could no longer hear him, she raced into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. Moving to the bed, she sat down, chin in hands, deep in her thoughts.

 

The note, to start; it had yielded a good deal of its secrets. She had met Combeferre and Bahorel, and ‘R’ was Grantaire, apparently. 

“They call me R, Grand-R, mademoiselle,” he’d said. “A fitting moniker for such a great man.” She doubted that; Grantaire, from what she’d seen, was an argumentative drunk, not a great man by any means. But she wasn’t here to think about him.

 

The mention of rallies, barricades, and prostitute rights made sense, too, now that she knew what Les Amis did...but Lamarque was still an unknown name What had the note said? 

‘Write to Lamarque, plead for prostitute rights in referendum.’ That was it. If Enjolras planned to write to this man to push for rights, he must’ve been a sympathetic government official. 

 

Tamar nodded, pleased. No more secrets with the note, then. She still didn’t think that fighting would solve anything...but that had yet to happen.

 

Next item of interrogation, then, she thought. Did Enjolras’s father abuse him or not? The dream had provided overwhelming proof that he had. The letter, too. Why else would Enjolras have escaped, as he’d put it, and have been disowned that way? She sympathized, but what could she do? That part of her flatmate’s past had clearly been buried.

 

A knock on the door startled Tamar out of her reverie. She jumped to her feet and ran silently to it. Who could it be? Surely the amis knew that their friend wasn’t here?

 

Stretching up on her toes, she peered through the peephole in the door. A little boy stood outside. His clothes were dirty, patched, and threadbare, his dark blonde curls were unkempt, and his shoes were full of holes. He wore a red cap tilted at a rakish angle, and his blue-gray eyes twinkled mischievously. 

 

“‘Ello?” He knocked again. “Enj? Ya in there?”

“He’s not here right now,” Tamar said, opening the door a crack. “What did you want with him?”

 

The boy’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at her with both curiosity and suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

 

X X X

 

“I’m...a friend of Enjolras.”

“Enjy’s got a lot of friends,” the boy said, still staring, “But I’ve never met you before.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” she replied dryly. The two sized each other up for a while, and Tamar sighed. “Would you like to come in? I might be able to help you if you need something.”

 

The boy stared at her for a moment longer. The, with a shrug, he skipped inside without a word. Tamar sighed again, this time in exasperation, and followed him in.

 

“So….” He looked around, and sat down on the couch. “You’re the strangest of Enj’s friends I’ve met yet, without doubt. Why’d you grow your hair so long? Looks damn odd on a bloke, if ya be askin’ me.”

“I’m a girl,” she called from the kitchen. “Is it that difficult to tell?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Well, there’s an eye-opener and no mistake,” he muttered. “Never seen a girl dress like that before!”

Tamar shrugged. “I pride myself on my individuality.”

“That’s good!” he said, grinning. “Got nothin’ against it, mind. Say, ya got any food?”

 

She picked up the plate of bread and cheese from earlier and came into the living room. “Here,” she said, placing it on the coffee table. The boy’s eyes lit up. 

 

“So,” she began as he took some of the cheese, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Gavroche, m’lady.” He sprang up and kissed her hand, grinning impishly. “And who are you, lady friend of Enjolras?”

“I’m not his ‘lady friend’ by any stretch,” she replied wryly. “I’m Tamar. I’m only staying with Enjolras for a week or so.”

“If you say so.” Gavroche’s eyes were sparkling, and Tamar got the feeling that he didn’t believe her. She rolled her eyes. Let the kid believe what he wanted. She didn’t care.

 

“What are you doing here, Gavroche?” she asked after a while. “Like I said, Enjolras isn’t here.”

The gamin frowned. “Where is he?”

“At university. He had morning classes and some exams.”

“Well, that’s a damn stroke o’ luck,” he muttered, looking rather put out. “He never has morning classes on Fridays; he shoulda told me! Damn irresponsible!”

“Watch your language,” she told him sternly. “Why is this a ‘damn stroke of luck,’ as you say?”

“Because on Fridays, Enj teaches me to read,” Gavroche explained. “I come in the mornings, and we get out some paper and some books, and he helps me with my reading and writing. Til noon, usually.”

 

Tamar nodded. Good of Enjolras, she thought, to help Gavroche like this. I wonder….

 

“Maybe I could help,” she suggested.

The boy stared at her. “You can read?” he asked, guarded hope in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I couldn’t.”

“Would ya?! he exclaimed, leaping up.

She smiled. “Of course. Where are the books you use?”

“In Enj’s room, where else?” The little boy took her hand as he ran down the hallway, and Tamar smiled sadly. She’d made another friend, it seemed.

 

X X X

 

When the Parisian clocks struck noon, Tamar closed the fairytale book that they’d been reading. 

 

“Good job, Gavroche,” she remarked.

“Thanks!” he said, beaming. “That’s one of my favorites to read, ya see. I liked all the voices ya did, by the way! Enj never does that!”

“Never?” Tamar inquired, smiling wickedly.

Gavroche nodded solemnly, but his mouth twitched. “Never.”

“I doubt that he can,” she mused, making the gamin snicker. “Besides, he’s too refined to do that.”

“Ya think?” he exclaimed, giggling.

“Of course. Do you know what he’d say if you asked him to do funny voices?”

“What?”

Tamar thought for a minute. “What sort of a question is that? Do you think I’m a fairground entertainer? Honestly, Gavroche, I’ve never heard a more asinine or demeaning request in my life!” she exclaimed in a perfect imitation of Enjolras’s voice.

 

Gavroche stared at her in shock; then he started howling with laughter. “That’s right brilliant!” he shouted. “He’d say that, too!

“Say,” he added as an afterthought, “do ya think ya could teach me to do that?”

“It’s not the sort of thing that’s easy to learn,” Tamar told him apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” For a moment he looked a bit downcast, but he shrugged it off with a smile. “Well, that’s alright. It is a mite creepy, anyway.”

“Creepy?” Tamar exclaimed in an English accent. “How dare you, sir! Confound your impertinence, I say!” 

 

Gavroche burst out laughing again. “That’s great!” he cried. “Well, I oughta get goin’. My momes are waitin’ for me.”

“Of course.” Tamar stood, and the boy shook her hand.

“Thanks for the help,” he said. “I won’t forget ya!”

“Nor I you,” she replied.

“Well, au revoir, mademoiselle acteur!” He skipped to the door, but then he stopped, resting his hand on the knob. “Oh! There’s a meeting of Les Amis tonight, at the Musain. You should go!”

“A meeting?” Tamar frowned. It did sound interesting; she wanted to see the Amis in action. “All right. I should probably ask Enjolras, though.”

“Aw, he’ll say yes. They don’t really let girls in, but he’ll make an exception for you.”

“You think so?”

“Sure! Kids ain’t supposed to come, either, but I go to meetings all the time. Besides, ya said everyone already knows you. You’ve gotta come!”

Tamar laughed and ruffled Gavroche’s hair. “Basta! I’ll ask him, Gavroche, all right?”

“Great! See ya tonight!” And the little gamin ran off, whistling happily as he disappeared.

 

X X X

 

Enjolras came home at five o’clock, and set his leather bag down with a thump. Tamar glanced up from the coffee table, where she’d been sorting her herbs, and regarded the blonde student calmly.

 

“How did the exams go?” she asked, placing a bag of chamomile leaves into the ‘have enough’ pile.

“Well, I think.” Enjolras took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch. But we won’t find out for a couple of weeks.”

“That long?”

“They’re long tests, and there are a lot of students that take them. They take a while to score.”

“I see. What are you studying, anyway?” Although she was curious, Tamar was really trying to ‘break the ice’ before asking about the meeting, and to do that, she needed to gauge Enjolras’s mood.

 

She studied him carefully. He was sitting on the couch beside her, and was leaning against the armrest with his chin resting on the palm of his hand. Tired, perhaps. But even though his body was relaxed, his eyes were sharp and clear. Alert, then, but no agitated. That was a good sign.

 

“Law.” She started when he answered; she’d completely forgotten she’d asked a question.

“That’s interesting.” She glanced at him one more time, and took a deep breath. Now or never. “Enjolras, when do the Amis meet? You know, to discuss your plans and such?”

 

The young man studied her, frowning slightly. “We meet every week. Tonight, for example. Why did you want to know?”

“Just curious.” Nothing wrong with beating around the bush. “What do you do at the meetings?”

“Discuss our plans, as you guessed.” The student’s tone was guarded, as though he didn’t think he could trust her with too much information. That irritated Tamar slightly. Surely he knew that she wouldn’t give his plans away!

 

“You say you have a meeting tonight,” she said. Enjolras nodded. “Do you think I could come? I do want to help Les Amis, and this seems like a good start.”

“You? You want to attend a meeting?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she replied, a bit more sharply than was necessary.

 

Enjolras raked a hand through his curls. “You do realize that women are generally not allowed to attend these meetings.”

“That makes no sense. If you're fighting for social equality, then women should play just as big a role in bringing it about as men. I didn’t think you’d be this discriminating.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “You presume much.”

“I’m just saying-”

“I do not welcome women because most of the women who are privileged enough to be of help to our cause are vain, shallow, spendthrift creatures who care only for their own appearances and comfort.”

 

At this speech, Tamar raised her eyebrows. “I...can’t argue with that,” she admitted, “but not all privileged women are like that.

“No.” Enjolras looked her right in the eye. “Some, such as yourself, as quite the opposite.”

“Thank you.” She paused for a moment. “Does this mean that you’re letting me attend the meeting with you?”

He sighed. “At the moment, I’m hard-pressed to refuse.”

“Yes!” Tamar jumped up, herb packets forgotten, and turned a backflip. Landing in a crouch at Enjolras’s feet, she stood and offered him her hand. “I extend this hand as a token of our renewed friendship,” she said, smiling.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Renewed? Were we friends before?”

“I assumed so. After all, we argue like a married couple. That typically doesn’t happen among enemies.”

 

At the term ‘married couple,’ he blushed. “It is difficult not to argue with you,” he muttered. Then, to Tamar’s surprise, he smiled. “You’re a bit of an acquired taste.”

 

She stared at him in shock. His handsome face became positively radiant when he smiled; his white teeth stood out beautifully against his bronze skin, and his eyes lit up like a sunlit sea. Well did Courfeyrac name you Apollo, she thought. Then, the second part of his comment hit her.

 

“What did you just call me?!” She sprang at him, but he dodged gracefully, grabbed his bag, and shot into his room. Tamar stopped at the door, and the bolt clicked.

 

“Damn you, Enjolras!” The only reply she got was a laugh. With an irritated huff, she went back to her herbs. Nighttime was a long way off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!  
> Gamin- small boy  
> Momes- lads  
> Acteur- actor  
> Au revoir- Good-bye  
> Basta- Italian for 'enough'


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is a cheeky bastard. That's all I need to say.

They left the apartment at quarter to seven. Enjolras put his dark green jacket back on, and Tamar grabbed a black one from her trunk. The October night was cool, and a chill wind blew up from the Seine, stirring the city with its icy breath.

 

“The Musain is only three blocks from here,” Enjolras told her as they walked.

“I know,” Tamar replied. When the student looked at her quizzically, she shrugged. “I’ve been there before.”

“Have you?” His voice was a bit too calm. “When was this?”

“Um...last night.” She smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry; I should’ve said something, but you were asleep.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please say you didn’t go alone.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “How stupid do you think I am? Your friends took me.”

“My...oh, God,” he muttered.

“What?”

He sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Tamar?”

She shrugged. “Get used to my adventurous nature, I suppose. Nothing else you can do.”

 

X X X

 

The cafe seemed to be just as lively as it had been last night, and Tamar could hear the strains of a fiddle from a block away, playing an old Irish drinking song. She sang along as she walked, her lyric mezzo-soprano voice floating out into the night. Enjolras looked at her strangely, but he said nothing.

 

The music grew louder as they got closer, and they could hear men’s voices singing along. Tamar could pick out some of them: Courfeyrac’s joyful tenor, Bossuet’s husky baritone, and Bahorel’s bass, with his unmistakable brogue.

 

“They sound like they’re having a good time,” she remarked. Enjolras nodded, but he didn’t look at all pleased.

“Of course,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “They had to pick tonight of all nights to have a celebration. Bloody typical.”

Tamar hid her laughter behind her hand. Apollo he may be called, but Enjolras definitely didn’t have a godlike mouth!

“What’s so funny?” he asked, annoyed.

She shook her head, unable to hide a smile. “Nothing, Enjolras.”

 

X X X

 

When they arrived at the door, Enjolras held it open, just as Feuilly had done last night. Tamar bowed to him, feeling an extraordinary sense of deja vu.

 

“Thank you, good monsieur,” she said, stepping gracefully inside. If Enjolras made a reply, though, she didn’t hear it, for her ears filled with the sounds of the Parisian nightlife. Laughter, loud talking, the clinking of plates and bottles, and the shouts of card players mingled with the music.

“Wait here,” the blonde said. Tamar watched as he made his way over to the boisterous singers, stalking with a feline grace. He spoke to them firmly, although she couldn’t make out a word. After a while, he returned with Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Bahorel. 

 

“Mademoiselle Tamar!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise! What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the same reason as you,” she retorted pertly, “and that’s not for the food and drink.”

The brunette laughed. “You’re here for the meeting, of course,” he said. 

“I am. And we’d better go. Enjolras looks like he wants to tan your hide.”

 

X X X

 

Tamar followed the four men down the hall to the back room. Bossuet, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac entered first, talking and laughing. Enjolras held the door for her again, and once again, she bowed, lightly smacking his arm on her way in.

 

The scene that greeted her was quite similar to last night’s, but this time, Grantaire was swaggering toward the door, whiskey bottle in hand.

 

“Well!” he exclaimed, his deep voice surprisingly clear. “The great Apollo has shown tonight! And with a lady, no less! What is your name, fair mademoiselle, you who has charmed our friend of stone?”

Tamar rolled her eyes. “You know who I am, Grantaire. You met me last night.”

“Did I?” The drunkard frowned, coming right up to her. She caught one whiff of the liquor on his breath and backed away. “Ah!” he shouted suddenly. “The mysterious Tamar! I thought I recognized your face. You’re as beautiful and unapproachable tonight as you were when last I saw you!” 

 

Laughter rippled through the room, but Tamar did not miss the sudden tensing of Feuilly’s jaw, and she wondered at it.

“Leave her alone, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, the now familiar edge back in his voice. “We need to get started; we’re running late as it is.”

Grantaire stared at the leader, agog. “You’re defending her?” he asked in shock. Then, he burst out laughing.

Enjolras scowled. “What, for God’s sake, are you laughing at?” he snapped.

 

X X X 

 

The larger man turned around and whipped back, spreading his arms theatrically. “Ho!” he shouted, his green eyes bright. “Behold, our statue, our Apollo, who will spare a breath to defend a lady’s honor! Unheard of, gentlemen! An anachronism so far removed from his usual character that it is impossible to believe, yet we must believe it, for it has occurred before our very eyes!” He took a step forward, grinning dangerously. “I do believe,” he continued, “that there exists something between these two. Some bond, beyond our mere human understanding! A bond that is unearthly! Sidereal! Divine!

“I believe-” and here he jumped onto a nearby table- “that Apollo has found his Artemis! They are the sun and the moon, burning and glowing, light and dark! One completes the other, and together they rise above the heavens!”

 

X X X

 

Silence reigned in the cafe as Grantaire gave a grandiose bow. With one catlike bound, he quitted the table and made his weaving way over to Enjolras.

“Well,” he cried, throwing a sinewy arm around the leader's shoulder. :Have I about summed it up?”

Enjolras stared at the drunk man for a long moment, and shook his head in exasperation. “Not in the slightest,” he replied, pushing Grantaire off of him. The contempt in his voice sent a shard of sadness through Tamar.

 

Seeing Grantaire’s hurt look, she gently put a hand on his shoulder. “I thought it was a lovely speech,” she told him, offering a small smile. “A bit excessive, perhaps, but good nonetheless.”

Grantaire gave her a surprised glance. The he laughed. “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle,” he said grandly. “A pity our Apollo doesn’t feel the same.”

“He doesn’t seem to like you much,” she observed. “Why is that?”

The black-haired man smiled bitterly. “Because I believe in nothing,” he muttered. “He thinks that if I am to be a part of this group, I should share its views. I don’t think that should be so, but….”

“Then why do you stay?” she inquired. “Why do you argue with him on these things, if his opinion of you is as low as you say?”

“Every man must play his part, and mine is a sad one,” he told her, with a sardonic smile on his thin lips.

 

With the best will in the world, Tamar didn’t know what to say to that. She glanced over at Enjolras, who nodded and stood.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, making Grantaire snort with disbelief. “Are we ready to begin?”

 

X X X 

 

The Amis talked late into the night. Tamar watched the meeting intently, rarely offering up opinions. Still, the others, Enjolras and Combeferre in particular, often asked what she thought of certain ideas and situations.

 

“It’s important to get information from someone who actually lives among those we aim to help,” Combeferre explained.

“I haven’t lived here long,” she reminded him. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be.” Still, she told them all she knew: of the terrible conditions in the streets, the dissatisfaction with the monarchy, the despair. When she finished, Enjolras nodded, seemingly unsurprised. 

 

“That’s all well and good,” he mused, “but we need to take advantage of this unrest. We need to channel their hatred into an organized complaint. We need to speak to the people, hear their grievances for ourselves, and inform them of our cause.”

“There are other rebel groups all over Paris,” Bahorel pointed out. “I could go to them tomorrow, speak to their leaders, and get them to spread the word with us.”

“Do that,” Enjolras replied. “The more people we have, the better.” He frowned, tapping his long fingers against the table in thought. “Joly, ‘Ferre,” he began, “could you speak with the students at the medical school? We will definitely have need of their skills later on.”

“Of course,” Joly said excitedly. “Many I know are sympathizers already.”

“And it won’t be difficult to convince the others, “ Combeferre added. “Most university students in general aren’t too pleased with the monarchy.”

 

Enjolras nodded again. Tamar leaned forward in her chair, excitement coursing through her veins.

We’re making history, she thought, right here in this room.

 

“I could talk to the other workers at the factory,” Feuilly suggested. “they, too, are unhappy with their conditions, and news travels fast among them.”

“Perfect.” Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac and Jehan. “The pamphlets are ready,” he told them. “I’m going to speak at the Sorbonne tomorrow, so could you pick them up? We need them for Tuesday's rally.”

“Sure, Enj,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning. “We’ll pick them right up tomorrow...and we’ll be careful.”

“See that you are,” the blonde said coldly. “We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“What happened?” Tamar asked, unsure if she really wanted to know.

“Well,” Courfeyrac said flippantly, “I’m sure it wasn’t my fault. After all, I have the grace of a-”

“A cat, we know,” Bahorel interrupted impatiently. “Courf the cat; as if we haven’t heard that one a thousand times before.”

Courfeyrac shot the big redhead a sulky glare. “You’re just jealous, you clumsy thing,” he grumbled. “And here! Your interrupting has caused me to neglect the mademoiselle’s question! And your answer, my lady, is that it was all Joly’s fault.”

“What?! I-it was not!” the medical student cried. Angrily, he shook his hair out of his eyes and stood. “You pushed me!” 

“It was a friendly shove, nothing more!” Courfeyrac protested. “It wasn’t my fault that you stumbled and dropped the pamphlets in the river!”

 

Joly hid his face in his hands as Tamar began to laugh. “Did that really happen?” she asked incredulously.

Jehan winced. “Unfortunately, yes. When those two got back empty-handed, the very walls in here shook from the tempestuous force of Enjolras’s anger.”

Tamar stared at Enjolras, who neither confirmed nor denied this statement. “Is that so? My word, monsieur, you must learn to control your temper.”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel snickered, and Combeferre smiled. “She has a point, mon ami, “ the bespectacled student pointed out. Enjolras rolled his eyes in disgust.

“Jehan is exaggerating just a bit,” Feuilly conceded. “I certainly wouldn’t say the walls shook. Vibrated, perhaps...or cracked.” 

Courfeyrac laughed uproariously. “Cracked, that’s right!”

“That’s enough!” Enjolras snapped. “You all can ridicule me elsewhere, at a different time. If you don’t think you can manage that,” he added, fixing the hysterical Courfeyrac with a glare, “then I would suggest going somewhere else until you are in a more restrained state.”

The brunette glanced around. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Moi?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“COURFEYRAC!” Enjolras shouted, his low voice cracking like a whip. Tamar and Jehan jumped. “ENOUGH!”

The center dipped his head in acquiescence, but his full lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “Of course. I’ll shut up now, Apollo.”

“You-” Enjolras cut himself off, and began swearing rapidly and profusely in Occitan. Feuilly’s eyes widened, Joly and Marius looked confused, Bahorel began to laugh, and Bossuet covered Jehan’s ears. Tamar blushed. The blonde’s vocabulary was more colorful than she’d thought.

“Does this happen often?” she asked Combeferre.

He shrugged. “Occasionally,” he replied. “Though I daresay Courfeyrac deserved the tongue-lashing this time.”

“This time?” 

 

Meanwhile, Enjolras had seemingly recovered his composure. He brushed the long curls out of his eyes and stood, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “All right,” he said firmly. “We need to focus.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Grantaire drawled, running a hand lazily over his black hair. “After all, urgency is a subjective state.”

 

Enjolras gave Grantaire a cutting look, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he looked everyone in the eye, as though assessing them. “That should be all for tomorrow,” he remarked, “unless anyone can think of another key spot to speak at.”

“What about the docks?” Tamar suggested. Enjolras glanced at her in surprise.

“She’s right,” Feuilly spoke up. “There are a great many workers at the docks, and they aren’t at all passive. Remember the riots a few months ago?”

“A good point,” Enjolras murmured. “The dock workers’ support was key last time. Still, it’s a dangerous place. I’d go myself, but I won’t have time tomorrow.”

“I’ll go,” Tamar said. “I know my way around the docks, and you know I can take care of myself.” 

“Absolutely not!” the blonde exclaimed. “I would not send you into such a situation-”

“You said you’d let me help you!” Tamar protested. “So why won’t you let me do this?”

“It’s too dangerous!” Enjolras exploded. “Damn it, Tamar, why must you insist on doing things that are incredibly detrimental to your well-being? You’re too young, too inexperienced-”

“Oh, really?” she shot back, rising to her feet. “You think I don’t know how shady it is down there? For God’s sake, Enjolras, I was born in a brothel on a riverbank in Vienna! I know what docks are like! So don’t tell me I’m too young, or inexperienced, or any of that scheisse. I have more disreputable experience than any of you!”

“I know that!” Enjolras shouted, leaping up to face her.

“Oh, you do, do you? How?” Tamar’s voice was laced with venom. 

“Enjolras took a step toward her, raking a hand through his curls. “Must we argue every time we speak to each other?” he asked softly. “What good does it do?”

Tamar paused for a moment, thinking. “None,” she sighed at last. “But I will not hesitate to argue with you if you insist on being overprotective.”

“I’m not trying to be overprotective!” Enjolras hissed, frustrated. “I just don’t want to be responsible for any injuries that may befall you!”

Tamar sighed again. “I know,” she replied. “Still, I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“I think you should let her speak,” Courfeyrac interjected. “She’s certainly proven her mettle… and her oratory skill.”

 

Tamar stared at the green-eyed man, unsure if his comment was an insult or a compliment. He merely shrugged, winking. 

Enjolras frowned, clearly deep in thought. “You realize,” he began after a time, “that the workers may not listen to you. Most of them are of the opinion that women have no place in politics.”

“He’s right,” Bossuet added. “They won’t listen to a girl.”

“Well, then I’ll just have to pretend to be one of them, yes?” Tamar asked in a man’s voice, with a thick Marseilles accent. “And I suppose I’ll have to do something about this hair of mine.”

 

The men all stared at her in shock. Courfeyrac’s mouth hung open, and Tamar tapped his chin with a cheeky grin.

 

“What do you think?” she asked in her normal voice. Bossuet let out a low whistle, and Grantaire clapped mockingly, but anyone could see that he was impressed.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “That’ll do,” he muttered. “You’re sure about this?”

“Positive.”

The blonde nodded. “Very well. I know I can't stop you. But I want you to do something for me.”

“What is it?” she asked with slight trepidation.

“I want Maruis to go with you.” When the chestnut-haired man began to protest, Enjolras held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not asking you to commit yourself to our cause,” he said quietly. “This is not a test. I just want you to go with Tamar and see for yourself what it is we’re trying to do. You both can learn from this.”

Marius pondered this for a minute, but finally he nodded. “I will go,” he said, “but I make no promises.”

Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder. “I did not expect you to,” he assured the younger man. “But I do expect you to help Tamar.”

“Of course.” Marius gave Tamar a shy smile and offered his hand to her. “It will be a pleasure working with you, mademoiselle.”

“Likewise,” she replied. taking his outstretched hand. It felt smooth and soft in her tough, calloused palm. The two shook hands firmly.

 

“Well,” she said. “That’s settled, then.”

“Is everyone clear on what they’re doing for tomorrow?” Enjolras asked.Everyone gave their assent. “Good. Remember, we’re holding Tuesday’s rally outside the Jardin du Luxembourg. Everyone will be there, yes?”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac called. “At least, I hope so. I may be...otherwise occupied.” A chorus of laughs, groans, and the occasional eye-roll resonated through the back room. 

 

Tamar sat back in her chair, watching the meeting wind down. Enjolras turned to speak with Combeferre and Bahorel, and Grantaire went to the bar for another drink.

 

“So, mademoiselle.” Marius’s voice startled her. “Will you be preparing a speech for tomorrow?”

“No,” she responded. “I plan to improvise. And if anyone asks, my name is Gaspare Anatole.”

Marius raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you pick a less...exotic pseudonym? After all, people will remember that, and you could get caught more easily.”

“I want people to remember,” she retorted. “A strange name will get more attention, yes, but that means that more people might come to listen.”

“I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. “In any case, Courfeyrac’s aliases are much stranger.”

Tamar laughed softly. “I can imagine,” she muttered, glancing around the room. “What will you be doing while I speak?”

“I could...I’m not sure.” Marius blushed. “I’m afraid I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I,” she assured him. “Well, I’ll speak, and you can act as crowd control.” 

 

Marius burst out laughing, and Tamar did, too. The Bonapartist was surprisingly easy to talk to. Then, he glanced around, too, and frowned. “Feuilly is looking at you strangely,” he told her. “You might want to see what he wants.”

 

Tamar glanced up, surprised. Sure enough, the German worker was staring at her intently. She stood and walked over to him, noticing how he seemed to grimace as she sat.

“Feuilly, was ist los?” she asked him. “Did you want to speak to me about something?”

“No, I….” He ran a hand through his fine hair. “Yes, actually. I just wanted to tell you to be careful tomorrow. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Tamar looked at him suspiciously. “I’ll be fine, but thank you for your concern.”

The German nodded awkwardly. 

Tamar frowned. “Is that all?” 

“Ja.”

“Are you sure? You seem...troubled about something.”

“No, fraulein, nothing troubles me,” Feuilly sighed. “But I should be going. Guten nacht.”

“Gute nNacht,” she replied, feeling uneasy. 

 

She couldn’t shake the feeling as Feuilly left, and some of the others followed suit. Something was troubling him, she was sure of it, and she sensed that she had something to do with it. But what could it be? She sighed, putting the thought aside. She had to prepare for tomorrow. It would be interesting, for sure. She hoped she didn’t let the Amis down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that! Wow, considering that I took more than a month to write this, I’m surprising dissatisfied with it. But tell me what you think, regardless!
> 
>  
> 
> A few notes on some potential points of confusion. If Grantaire’s speech seemed confusing and obscure, it was because he was, as usual, he was drunk. As for Bahorel, I’ve always pictured him as a big redhead with a Scottish accent; I don’t know why. 
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t own the name ‘Courf the Cat.’ That’s the screen name of a Fanfiction writer who’s written some very good stories for Les Mis. I borrowed the name, but I claim no ownership whatsoever.
> 
>  
> 
> The riots that Feuilly mentioned were real. This story takes place several months after the revolution of 1830, when the reactionary Charles X was ousted from office. The new king, Louis-Philippe, ruled over a bourgeois monarchy; his policies favored the rich and left the poor in the dust. The Amis are rebelling against him.
> 
>  
> 
> Translation time!
> 
>  
> 
> Merci beaucoup- French for ‘thank you very much’
> 
> Moi- French for ‘me’
> 
> Was ist los- German for ‘what is wrong’
> 
> Ja- German for ‘yes’
> 
> Scheisse- German for ‘shit’
> 
> Fraulein- German word for an unmarried woman
> 
> Gute Nacht- German for ‘good night’


	13. Chapter 12 Deleted Scene (Dueling Violins)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a deleted scene from Chapter 12. Enjoy!

When Tamar and Enjolras arrived at the Musain, the blonde held open the door, just as Feuilly had done last night. Tamar bowed to him, feeling an extraordinary sense of deja vu.

 

“Thank you, good monsieur,” she said, stepping gracefully inside.

 

If Enjolras made a reply, however, she didn’t hear it, for her ears filled with the sounds of the parisian nightlife. Laughter, loud talking, the clinking of plates and bottles, and the shouts of card players mingled with the singing and the violin.

 

She could see Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Bahorel, standing in the back with a crowd of other men. The fiddler, a lany albino with waist-length, white-gold curls, stood on a table, dancing a jig as he played the Irish drinking song. When he spotted her, his dance stilled, and he leaped off the table, slowing the tempo of his song to a mysterious adagio.

 

“My lady,” he whispered, sidling up to her. Tamar took a step back as the albino advanced. “Would ye do me an honor, lass?”

“Of what sort?” she asked, taking another step back. Enjolras put a hand on her arm.

The albino stopped, and bowed to her as he played a long trill. “I heard ye singing outside,” he told her, his Irish accent muddling the words. “Would ye care to join me in a round? A...contest of musicians, say?”

“How do know I’m a musician?” she asked. “For all you know, I could be completely tone-deaf.”

“I don’t think ye are,” he replied. “What do ye say, lassie?”

 

Tamar cast a glance around the cafe. Everyone, it seemed, was watching her. Enjolras, beside her, was giving the fiddler a cold glare. Across the room, Courfeyrac swept off his hat and raised his eyebrows, as if challenging her.

 

Very well, she thought. You’ve got yourself a deal, monsieur. She shook Enjolras’s hand off her arm and stepped up to the fiddler.

“A contest, you say?” She looked down, pretending to consider. Then, she looked up to meet the man’s pink-tinted eyes and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re on.”

“A duel, sirs!” he shouted, raising his arms high. the men in the cafe clapped and cheered. 

 

Enjolras shot Tamar a warning glance. “We’re wasting time!” he hissed. “We need to go.”

“This won’t take long,” she whispered back. “Besides, several of the Amis are here already.”

 

X X X

 

“What’s your wager, then?” Bahorel called suddenly.

Tamar blinked in surprise. “Wager?” she repeated, confused. 

The redhead sauntered up to her and threw a brawny arm around the fiddler’s shoulder. “Of course! No contest is complete without a good wager of some sort.

“Let’s see,” he mused. “If Seireadan here,” he gave the fiddler a shake, “wins, then Tamar has to kiss him.”

“WHAT?” she shouted. the cafe shook with laughter, and Tamar stormed up to Bahorel. “Are you insane?!” she exploded. “What makes you think I’d do that?!”

“Well,” Bahorel said, winking, “it’s only fair. Besides, if you win, he has to pay you.”

“I have to pay ‘er?” Seireadan cried. “Max, you know I have no money!”

“Yes, you do,” he replied airily. “Come on, fiddler! This contest was your idea in the first place!”

“I will not allow it to proceed.” Enjolras spoke for the first time, his voice hard. “It is ridiculous, and your wager takes advantage of Tamar and Seireadan both.”

“God’s sake, Enj, lighten up!” Bahorel grumbled. Enjolras fixed him with a steely glare. “All right, I’ll call the wager off.”

“But the contest is still on,” Tamar cut in. Ignoring both Enjolras’s protests and the cheers of the onlookers, she walked over to Seireadan and offered a hand. “May the best win.”

“Aye,” he replied, grinning.

 

X X X 

 

Someone found another fiddle behind the bar, and Tamar took it, tuning it quickly. G, D, A, E- they all sounded fine. Satisfied, she stepped into the circle of cleared floor space that everyone was gathered around.

 

Seireadan bowed to her, and she bowed back. Both of them touched bow to string. The albino played a D, and Tamar drew out an A. 

 

“I didn’t know you could play, too,” Seireadan said with a roguish grin.

Tamar shrugged. “I can’t, really,” she replied, with a devilish smirk of her own.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she assured him, nodding. “I can’t play the violin with any sort of skill.

“Then I’ll go easy on ye.” Seireadan drew out a long A, and began to play, slowly and skillfully. He dipped and swayed as he played, as though his body was one with the music. Tamar listened carefully, and realized that she knew the tune. the tempo began to speed up, and she grinned; any second now, she’d join in….

 

X X X 

 

The dueling violins sang out into the night as the crowd watched, spellbound. Seireadan played with a light, deft hand, his skeletal fingers dancing over the strings and coaxing forth a beautiful, lilting sound. Tamar’s hand was shakier, her transitions not quite as smooth, but her music had a pure, untrained beauty to it, weaving between the albino’s notes like thorns on a rose. They danced beside each other, caught up in the swirl of the music, exhilarated by the sounds.

 

The men were dancing as only young men can dance, with leaps and twists, shouts and claps. Bossuet swung Courfeyrac around by the elbow, and they crashed into a table, to the great amusement of everyone watching.

 

Only Enjolras stood apart. He gazed off into the distance, seemingly completely disinterested in the contest taking place. His diffidence stung a bit, but Tamar knew there was nothing she could do about it.

 

The song finished on a long, high A, and Tamar and Seireadan bowed to thunderous applause. Someone came up behind the two of them and raised their bow hands into the air.

 

“Brilliant!” It was Bahorel. He swung an arm around Tamar’s shoulders and thumped Seireadan on the back, making him cough. “That was bloody brilliant, both of you!”

“Aye,” the albino said, holding out his narrow, white hand. “Ye play a right good fiddle, lassie, even if ye are a bit rusty.”

Tamar snorted. “That’s an understatement.” She smiled. “It was a good match, though...even though I obviously lost.” Then, she winked at the fiddler and turned to the crowd. “I did lose, right?” she called. Everyone roared with laughter. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

 

Grinning, she placed the violin back on the bar with a nod to the bartender. Courfeyrac came up to her and kissed her hand.

“You give yourself too little credit, mademoiselle,” he told her, smiling impishly. “You really do play wonderfully.”

“If only that were true,” she replied, with a sigh of mock despair.

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. “You are a tease!” he exclaimed. “I’d buy you a drink after that match, but….”

“Yes, I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” she said ruefully. “Who knows what trouble I might get into.”

“Indeed.” Courfeyrac winked. “I, however, have no such restrictions. What do you have today?” he called to the bartender.

“Got somethin’ exotic today, monsieur,” she said, bringing out a dark glass bottle. “Pineapple rum. Want to try it?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Why not?”

“Excellent choice,” she replied, grinning. She poured some of the dark rum into a glass, and brought out an odd, spiny yellow fruit with a crown of leaves at the top.

That’s a pineapple, I suppose, Tamar thought. It looked incredibly unappetizing, but the bartender cut into it, chopping out hunks of golden fruit, which she dropped into the glass.

“Here you are, monsieur,” she said. “It’s on the house.”

“Merci, ma fleur,” the student exclaimed, winking broadly. The bartender blushed.

 

Courfeyrac carefully smelled the drink. “Not bad, I suppose,” he remarked.

“Well?” Tamar teasingly prodded his arm. “Taste it!”

“All right!” he laughed. At that, the brunette knocked back half the glass and abruptly made a face. “Mon dieu!” he gasped.

Tamar burst out laughing. “How doe it taste?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“Too damn sweet!” he choked out, and she collapsed onto a stool, weak with laughter.

“Your face….” She trailed off, shaking her head. “My God, that was fantastic.”

Courfeyrac smiled ruefully. “Serves me right, I suppose. By the way, Enjolras is staring at you.”

Tamar looked up, surprised. The blonde was indeed glaring at her from the other side of the cafe. “He...doesn’t look too pleased.”

“You’d better go see what he wants. And, Tamar,” Courfeyrac added as she stood up. She glanced at him, curious. “Pray for your life.”

 

X X X 

 

A shiver ran down Tamar’s spine as she walked over to Enjolras. The student’s eyes were darker than usual, and they were hard and cold as ice.

 

“What was that?” he asked as soon as she stood in front of him.

“What was what?” she replied, genuinely confused.

Enjolras made a stabbing gesture towards the bar, the crowd of men, and Seireadan the fiddler. “That,” he hissed. “Why did you agree to do that? You made a fool of yourself!”

“I did not!” she shot back. “It was just an innocent contest! Nothing went wrong, and everyone enjoyed it!”

“And that’s important, yes?” Enjolras’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Tamar threw her hands in the air. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she cried. “Why are you getting so worked up about this?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Enjolras was almost shouting. “Ask that to yourself! You could have put yourself into a very dangerous situation!” He sighed. “Look,” he continued more quietly. “You didn’t know anything about that man when you agreed to play with him. What if he had taken advantage of you? How would you have forseen it?”

Tamar snorted. “Right,” she said dryly. “He would’ve raped me; that’s what you were afraid of? Where would he have done it? Here? In front of all these people?!”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “All right, so that is a bit of a worst-case scenario-”

“Damn right it is; it’s ridiculous!”

“Let me finish,” Enjolras cut in, glaring at her. Tamar waved a hand, indicating that he should proceed. “I don’t want you to get hurt, especially when I could have done something to help. You’re one of my friends, and I look after my friends.”

 

Tamar glanced down at her scuffed boots. Enjolras’s words struck an unpleasant chord within her. She really hadn’t meant to cause him worry. He was the only one who had been worried, but even so….

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, offering a small smile. “I’ll think before I act next time, I promise.”

“All right,” he replied wearily, “and I apologize as well. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”  
“It’s fine,” she assured him. Glancing around, she added, “We ought to round up the others. We do have a meeting to attend, after all.” And when Enjolras smiled at her, Tamar felt truly forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you have it! Just a little thing I wrote that was supposed to go in Chapter 12. I hope you liked it! By the way, the song that Seireadan and Tamar played was the song ‘Dueling Violins.’ Look it up on YouTube; it’s awesome.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I apologize if anyone had a problem with pineapple rum. I am not of legal drinking age and I don’t really know anything about cocktails, or rum. I know coconut rum exists, so I thought that it would taste okay with pineapples, too. If there are any mixologists out there, please feel free to criticize Courfeyrac’s drink.
> 
>  
> 
> Translation time!
> 
>  
> 
> Merci- Thank you
> 
> Ma fleur- My flower
> 
> Mon dieu- My God


	14. Chapter 13

There was smoke- thick, choking smoke, stinking of gunpowder and burned flesh. Screams pierced the air, the screams of dying men, cutting through the haze and dripping with blood. Shots rang out into the night...so, morning, she realized. Dawn.

 

Someone grabbed her, spun her around. A musket was shoved into her hands. Desperately, she turned, trying to see who had given it to her, but there was no one in sight.

 

“You’re needed at the barricade!” someone shouted. Jehan? she wondered. She wanted to call out to him, ask, “What barricade?”...But her voice wouldn’t work.

 

Jehan began running, and she followed the sounds of his footsteps, the musket an uncomfortable weight in her hands. Tearing through an alley, she burst into the open. Before her, a massive barricade of furniture and loose cobbles loomed tall. A slim figure stood at the top, a black silhouette against the rising sun.

 

“This is our time!” Enjolras’s voice rang out clear and proud, echoing through the now-silent streets. “Our chance, to take a stand against oppression! No longer will the people have to suffer, no longer will the chains of the monarchy stifle them! We fight for a future! A future in which everyone is free!

“We fight,” he continued more softly, “so the children will not have to spend their lives starving. We fight so the young women can keep their virtue, so they can live without fear or shame. We fight for the men, so they will not have to steal or kill. We fight so that the people will have a voice!”

 

Cheers broke out among the assembled men: familiar faces, and strangers, too. All lifted their voices and cheered.

 

“Vive la France!” Enjolras roared, thrusting his musket into the air.

“Vive la France!” everyone echoed.

“Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!” he cried.

“Vive la France! Vive l’avenir!”

 

The sudden sound of marching feet silenced the passionate crowd. Hearts pounding, they turned towards the street, facing the oncoming soldiers with fire in their eyes. The very air shook from the vibrations of the soldiers’ boots. Behind the barricade, a thousand safeties were switched off, a thousand clicks were heard. Muskets were hefted to shoulders. Eyes narrowed in anticipation.

 

One man stepped out before the company of soldiers. “Halt!” he shouted. The company stopped as one. the man turned, his face a blur beneath his decorated helmet.

 

“Insurrectionists!” he called out. “Traitors to the crown! In the name of His majesty Louis Napoleon, I command you to surrender!”

“Not a chance!” That was Courfeyrac’s voice. The curly-haired brunette climbed nimbly up the barricade to stand beside Enjolras. “It’ll take more than a few decorated toadies to quench this flame!” A deafening click rang out, and ten thousand rifles were suddenly trained on Courfeyrac. He gulped. “Oh, don’t shoot me yet!” he called out, his cheerful voice shaking. “Give the underdogs the benefit of first blood, at least!”

“Courfeyrac. Arrêt.” Enjolras murmured. The golden leader faced the army calmly, unflinchingly, as though he were a terrible and beautiful statue.

 

“Traitors to the crown, you say?” he asked quietly. “And who are you, monsieur, hm? Who are your men?”

“We are loyal servants of the king,” the captain replied coldly.

“No.” If the captain’s voice was cold, the Enjolras’s was like ice. “I’ll tell you what you are. You are traitors to the people. Servants of the king? You are like his dogs; you will march willingly at his command. You do not even know why you truly fight.”

“We fight to bring justice to France.” the captain snapped.

“Justice? Ha!” Enjolras jumped down to the ground, ignoring the protests of his friends. With a face like thunder, he stalked up to the captain, looking him right in the eyes. “Is this what you call justice? You see beggars and waifs in the street, and you call it justice?! They are hopeless, they have nothing! We are fighting for them, to give them hope. That is justice.”

“No. That is treason.” The captain took a step back. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered, “but you’ve left me no choice.” He took another step back. “Rifles ready!” he yelled. The soldiers lifted their guns. “Kneel!” The front line knelt. “Take aim!” All ten thousand guns were leveled on the barricade.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac screamed. He started to run down the barricade, but a lanky man with red hair caught him and pulled him back. “NOOO!”

“FIRE!”

 

X X X 

 

“Ahhh!” Tamar jerked awake and bolted upright, gasping for breath. Her blankets were tangled around her legs, and she felt trapped, sick. On the verge of panic, she tore herself free and bolted to the window. Fumbling with the latch, she finally threw it open and leaned out. The cold morning air bathed her sweat-soaked body, and with a deep sigh, she felt the tension seep out of her like water through a crack.

 

“It was just a dream,” she whispered. “Estaba solamente un sueño.” She breathed out again as she braced herself against the windowsill. Outside, the sun was rising into a deep blue sky studded with pink, gold-edged clouds. The city was bathed in this heavenly glow, and Tamar had to look away. The divine sight mocked her bleak mood.

 

Thoroughly shaken, she walked back to her bed, mechanically straightening her disheveled sheets. The dream really had disturbed her deeply, and in the solitude of her room, she let her fear show itself on her face.

 

What did it mean? she wondered. Did it even mean anything? It couldn’t have….But she couldn’t convince herself of that. the dream had been so detailed, so vivid, so unlike a normal dream. She could remember everything clearly, right down to the color of Courfeyrac’s hat (a dark reddish-violet).

 

This wasn’t the first dream of this sort that she’d had, either. She had dreamed of Spiro Vonnegut before he’d attacked her family, and that dream had been just as clear as this one... it had been accurate to a fault. She’d dreamed of Paris once, too, and it was just as she’d seen it.

 

Was this dream, too, a prophecy? Had she seen the final battle of Les Amis?...Had she seen Enjolras’s death?

 

“God, no,” she whispered. “That can’t be it, please, don’t let that be what it meant….”

 

Seized by a sudden fear, Tamar spun around and shot out of the room. Skidding to a stop in front of Enjolras’s door, she threw it open without bothering to knock, breathing hard.

 

“Enjolras!” she cried.

 

The room before her was silent, and for a brief moment, Tamar felt her heart stop. “No,” she breathed, “please, please, no….”

“Tamar? What are you doing in here?” Enjolras’s voice startled her; she whirled around to face him, almost striking him as she did so.

“Where the hell did you come from?” she exclaimed.

“The kitchen,” he deadpanned. “What were you shouting about? You sounded rather frightened...are you alright?”

Tamar blew out a shaky breath. Suddenly she felt very foolish. “I’m fine,” she replied. “I just...had a question to ask you.”

“What was it?” he asked, stepping past her to enter his room.

“It’s...not important,” she muttered, watching him move about.

“All right.” Enjolras sounded skeptical, but he didn’t push for answers, a fact that Tamar was immensely grateful for. Instead, he reached into his armoire and pulled out a jacket she had never seen before. Worn though it was, it was beautiful: dark red with brass buttons that gleamed dully. It matched well with his black pants, navy waistcoat, and yesterday’s shirt and boots.

 

With a gasp, Tamar realized that Enjolras was wearing the exact same outfit that he’d worn in her dream. Every detail was identical. She felt that old fear take hold of her again, that fear of prophecy, of Morphean portents, of the dark unknown. This was a sign, she was sure of it...but surely her anxiety was completely irrational. After all, such things did not exist...right?

 

“You look like the archangel Michael in modern clothes,” she joked. Her voice was calm, teasing; it gave nothing away. Perfect.

“Really?” Enjolras’s lips curled into a half-smile. “I never pegged you for a religious proponent.”

“Oh?” Tamar leaned against the door frame, feigning an easy casualness she did not feel. “Why is that?”

Enjolras’s smile widened slightly. “Thou shalt not use the Lord’s name in vain?”

Tamar snorted. “I don’t think that that’s one of the Ten Commandments, Enjolras.” then, she paused. “Well, actually, I wouldn’t know.”

“I possess limited knowledge of the subject myself.” Enjolras fastened the last button on his waistcoat, but he left his jacket open. Seemingly satisfied, he made his way towards the door once more. He cast Tamar a strange glance as he left, but he said nothing.

 

Tamar glanced down at herself, wondering what she’d done to attract such a look. The sight of her bindings and silk leggings made her wince. She was half-naked. In front of Enjolras. Again.

 

Why does this keep happening? she asked herself. With a sigh, she re-entered her own room and knelt beside her open trunk. After sifting through her few clothes for a while, she finally decided on a simple white shirt, black waistcoat, light brown trousers, and a worn, patched jacket that was a brilliant shade of dark violet. Quickly, she laced up her boots and grabbed a thin length of rag from her trunk. She tied back her hair with it, but it still fell almost to her waist. Rolling her eyes, she went back into Enjolras’s room and scoured his armoire until she found a black hat that fit her.

 

“Perfect,” she murmured. After one final appraisal of her appearance, she hastily left the room and made her way to the kitchen. Enjolras was already there, shoving papers into his leather bag. Tamar reached around him to grab an apple from the bowl on the table.

 

“Enjolras,” she said, taking a bite.

“Hmm?” The student didn’t look up from his work.

Tamar snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. “Hey,” she exclaimed impatiently. “Can I borrow this? For today, at least?”

Enjolras finally looked at her, irritated. “Borrow what?” he asked.

“The hat,” she replied raising her eyebrows. “What else would I need of yours?”

“Ah.” The blonde re-commenced sorting his papers. “Of course. You’re a man today, and you’d never pass as one with hair like yours.”

“I happen to like my hair, thank you,” Tamar said with mock coldness. Still, she couldn’t keep back a laugh for long. “You’re right, though. The dockworkers won’t be as dense as Gavroche. He actually did think I was a man, albeit an extremely eccentric one.”

“Gavroche?” Enjolras’s tone was now sharp, inquisitive. “When did you meet him?”

“Yesterday morning.” No point in lying, really. “He came looking for you, for a reading lesson.”

“Merde,” he hissed. “Damn it, yesterday was Friday, I knew that, but-” 

“It’s all right,” Tamar cut in, trying to sound reassuring. “I helped him. He doesn’t blame you...well, not really, anyway.”

“You’re a boon,” Enjolras said seriously. “What happened was my fault; I should have told Gavroche that I had class. By the way,” he added, a slight note of mischief coloring his voice, “was it Gavroche that invited you to the meeting last night?”

Tamar glanced down at her half-eaten apple, flushing slightly. “How did you know?”

“An educated guess.” Enjolras sighed, his eyes becoming distant. “Notre petit patriote,” he murmured. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s quite the advocate.”

“Indeed.”

 

When it became apparent that Enjolras wasn’t going to say anything more, Tamar moved to one of the cupboards and removed a pot. Studying her blurred reflection in the dull metal, she twisted her hair up on top of her head and carefully put on the hat. Thankfully, it covered all her hair; actually, it didn’t look bad at all. Still, she needed a second opinion.

 

“What do you think?” she asked, turning to Enjolras.

Startled, the blonde glanced up and looked her over critically. “Not bad,” he remarked, “but you’ll need to wear the hat constantly to get it to stay like that, and that might look a bit suspicious.”

“True,” she sighed ruefully. “But what else can I do? I can’t wear my hair loose.”

“No.” For a moment, Enjolras appeared to be deep in thought. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Come with me; I have an idea.”

 

X X X 

 

Puzzled, Tamar followed Enjolras to his room, where he began rummaging through his armoire.

 

“What are you looking for?” she asked him.

For a while, he didn’t reply, but then he straightened up, holding what looked like a lump of hair in his hands. “Here it is,” he said, sounding slightly triumphant.

“Ah….” Tamar glanced at the...thing with growing apprehension. “What is that?”

“A wig,” Enjolras replied laconically. 

“Where did you get it?”

“Feuilly sometimes make them when the Amis need disguises.”

“I see.” Tamar moved closer, studying the wig. It was a dark shade of chocolate brown, nearly black. It matched her own hair exactly. “Is it made from real human hair?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then,” she muttered, raising her eyebrows. “So...you think I should wear this?”

Enjolras sighed. “Put your hair into the tightest bun you can, like a dancer’s, and pin it. I’ll help you with the rest.”

 

Bemused, Tamar did as he asked, twisting her hair so the bun lay almost flat to her head. Enjolras moved to stand behind her and placed the wig on her head, pinning it so that it looked like her natural hair. “There you go,” he announced when he had finished. “How does it feel?”

Tamar studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I can barely tell it’s there,” she said honestly. “Where did you learn how to put on wigs so well?”

“I have a cousin who acts at the Palais Garnier,” he replied, his tone suddenly guarded. “She taught me some useful tricks.”

“I can tell.” She decided not to push the subject any further; Enjolras clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, she looked back at herself. The wig’s dark waves rested on her shoulders and framed her face, giving her a surprisingly masculine appearance. She replaced the hat, completing the picture. “Well, I’m ready. Thank you for the help.”

“It was no trouble.” Enjolras suddenly caught her hand and met her eyes, looking very serious. “Tamar, please, listen to me for once. I want you to be very careful out there today; I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Mind what you say and do, and try not to attract the attention of any gendarmes. I know Marius will be there with you-”

“And you know that I am more than capable of protecting myself,” she added cooly.

Enjolras sighed frustratedly. “That kind of thinking will draw you straight into trouble. Hubris is a fatal flaw.” He let go of her hand, but continued to look into her eyes. “Whatever was bothering you this morning, I want you to get it out of your mind. It distressed you, and therefore it distracted you. think about something else.”

 

Tamar was slightly shocked that Enjolras had been able to tell she’d been hiding some problem. She’d kept it well hidden, for God’s sake! How had he known?...Then again, she had burst into his room, desperate to know where he was. Not the sort of discretion she’d been hoping for.

 

She sighed. What had happened was over. Enjolras was right, thinking about it would only upset her again. “All right,” she promised. “I’ll be careful, I swear.”

“That’s all I ask.” A sudden knocking at the door made them both jump. Slowly, Enjolras grinned. “There’s your escort,” he said archly. “I wish you luck in your exploits, Tamar.”

“That’s Anatole to you” she replied, laughing.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, but wisely didn’t comment. “I meant what I said,” he said instead, his voice becoming stern. “Every word.”

“I know,” she exclaimed impatiently. “I promised, remember?”

 

The two made their way to the door, leaving the apartment together, Marius stood outside, looking nervous. Enjolras gave him a nod, and said something to him quietly. The other man nodded solemnly, and Tamar shot Enjolras a warning glance. If they were talking about her...but the blonde left before she could confront him, and she and Marius were left alone.

 

“Well,” she said, her eyes beginning to spark with excitement. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be, I suppose,” Marius replied, giving a hesitant smile of his own.

“Then let’s go.” Tamar switched suddenly into her man’s voice. “The people need us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!
> 
> Vive la France: Long live France
> 
> Vive l’avenir: Long live the future
> 
> Arrêt: Stop
> 
> Estaba solamente un sueño: Spanish for ‘it was only a dream’
> 
> Merde: Shit
> 
> Notre petit patriote: Our little patriot
> 
> Gendarmes: Police officers
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who thought the ‘prophetic dream’ thing was irrational, it’s not. I have heard of many people who can predict the future, often through dreams. Even ordinary people can have dreams that are very vivid and somewhat prophetic; I have experienced this myself. It is very rattling, but it’s interesting at the same time.


	15. Chapter 14

The docks were exactly as Tamar had imagined them: noisy, crowded, and reeking of sweat and fish. Just like home, she thought wryly. She certainly felt at home, had long since removed her jacket, unbuttoned her waistcoat, and rolled her shirtsleeves to the elbows. She looked like she belonged here, just one more poor young laborer.

 

Marius was another story. He truly had made a noble effort to dress plainly, but his clothes were too fine; he looked like a rich man in disguise. Everyone they passed gave him strange, almost hostile looks, while the stares they directed at Tamar were nothing short of incredulous. What’s that young lad doing with a bourgeois fellow like that? they seemed to ask.

 

“I feel remarkably out of place,” Marius confided to her. “I hope we haven’t made a mistake in coming here.”

“Nonsense,” Tamar replied, taking care to speak in her man’s voice. “You’ll be fine, so long as you stay by me. Mind your pockets, too,” she added quietly. “Thieves feed on rich men.”

 

Luckily, Marius didn’t seem offended by that. Still, he gave her a long, hard look, and eventually, Tamar began to squirm under the weight of his gaze.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter? Is there something on my face?”

The young man ducked his head in embarrassment. “Ah, no,” he mumbled, smiling sheepishly. “I just...can’t get used to the sight of you with short hair.”

Tamar cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Really. That’s the pressing matter that’s occupying your mind so?”

Marius wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Well….”

“Look,” she sighed. “we’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you. Worst comes to worst-”

“If the police catch us, you mean.”

She smirked grimly. “Yes. If the police catch us, we’ll throw a few dead fish at their heads and escape into the river. they won’t know what hit them.”

Marius stared back into her eyes, his expression almost pained in its solemnity. “Is this a joke to you?” he asked quietly. “Are you not worried at all?”

Tamar sighed again. “I am,” she admitted, “but that doesn’t mean that I can’t stave off the worry of someone else...namely you.”

“Well,” the Bonapartist said dryly. “Your way of doing so isn’t exactly reassuring.”

“I’ve been told that I’m rubbish at reassurances,” she shot back, a quirky smile on her lips. “Well...we have to do this sooner or later. And sooner is sounding pretty good to me.”

 

X X X 

 

Tamar and Marius walked on for quite a while, looking for an ideal spot at which to speak. They were in luck, Tamar reflected, eyeing a promising stack of crates. The merchant ships and fishing vessels from the South and the West wouldn’t come to dock until the afternoon. Consequently, the workers who unloaded the boats were almost just passing the time, busying themselves as they could. Even at this early hour, prostitutes smirked and sidled their way into the laps of the men, and drunk sailors reeled and caroused out of the lively pubs.

 

This was motley crowd, to be sure. Still, Tamar could glimpse incongruous sparks in the dull, weary eyes: sparks of anger and indignation, of injustice. Sparks of rebellion. Perfect, she thought. All she had to do was reach out, touch and stir those sparks. Ignite them. Set them alight in a glorious blaze of passion. But speak, and light the soul of the world on fire. Simple.

 

Jaw set, the girl made her dogged way to the crates. Marius, startled by her sudden change of direction, hurried to her side, jogging slightly to keep up with her ruthless strides.

“Where are you going?” he exclaimed. Then, mindful of the myriad prying eyes and ears about them, he lowered his voice. “Are you going to speak now? Tamar, you don’t even have anything prepared! How do you expect to-”

“Relax, Marius. I told you, I know what I’m doing,” she replied firmly. 

 

If she was honest with herself, she would have balked. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing, and she was scared stiff. For God’s sake, she hated speaking in front of any crowd, size be damned! Why in Hell had she agreed to do this?!... Bu she was rarely honest with herself, and she quickly cast that thought from her mind.

 

X X X 

 

With two quick bounds, Tamar leaped to the top of the stack of crates, only to stumble clumsily as it lurched. Marius moved to try and steady the teetering boxes, but his pushing only made the rocking movement worse. Drawing in a sharp breath, Tamar tried valiantly to center her weight and steady herself; a large crowd had gathered before the unexpected spectacle, and she would not make a fool of herself by falling in front of them!

 

However, it seemed that Lady Luck had deserted her, for the entire stack came crashing down. The CRACK of splintered wood echoed around the pier, and the onlookers laughed and jeered. Awkwardly, Tamar stood, wincing slightly from the stiff, bruised feeling that had spread through her body. Trying to appear unruffled, she brushed the splinters from her clothes, picked up Enjolras’s slightly crushed hat, placed it back on her head, and faced the disported crowd.

 

“Well!” she exclaimed in her man’s voice. “What a way to make an entrance.”

Laughter rippled through the mob, growing more boisterous as Marius picked his way gingerly over the broken planks. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously. “you’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Took quite a tumble there, laddie!” a man with a grizzled beard called out. “Damn lucky you weren’t crushed!”

“Damn right,” she muttered. Then, getting an inkling of ridiculous inspiration, she raised her voice and asked, “Who commissioned those crates, do you think?”

The other man spat onto the ground. “His Majesty the King, of course!” he leered.

Tamar raised her eyebrows. “I see,” she drawled. “No wonder they were faulty.”

The gathered men roared appreciatively. A few paces from her side, Marius shot her an incredulous glance, as if asking, What do you think you’re doing? Tamar met his stare briefly, offering a crooked half-smile. Trust me, her eyes said.

 

“Faulty?” someone shouted suddenly. A hundred faces turned to the speaker, an enormous, bull-necked man who wore the white, bloodstained apron of a butcher. His own face was bright red, and his veins bulged from the strength of his apparent rage. “You insult the good carpenters, boy!”

“I protest,” she retorted calmly. “the carpenters cannot be blamed. They, after all, are expected, like the rest of us, to follow the orders of a milksop with his head in the clouds and a stick up his ass.”

 

X X X 

 

A pregnant silence fell over the assembled men as they contemplated her words with shock. For someone to have the audacity to speak so boldly against the king in public like this...it was almost unheard of. As miserable as the lives of these people might have been, they weren’t particularly willing to risk being charged and executed for high treason. No one liked to learn that their lives were worth less than nothing in the eyes of their motherland.

 

The hush, however, was broken by the butcher, who stalked angrily through the mass of people until he was standing directly above Tamar. She swallowed convulsively. The man was even more colossal at close range: at least a foot and a half taller than she, and almost thrice her weight.

 

“Well,” he growled, looking down at her. “You’re a short little bugger, aren’t ya?”

She shrugged, trying not to betray her unease. “I daresay I’m taller than that bastard Bonaparte,” she quipped smartly.

“Bastard is right!” someone shouted, sparking a chorus of taunts and insults directed at the banished tyrant.

“Aye, a child towers above that man, he’s so low!” a man with a tarred ponytail suddenly snarled.

 

Tamar went still at that. The man’s words struck a chord in her heart...and if the increased noise of the others was anything to go by, they clearly felt the same way. Sensing a momentous opportunity, she drew herself up to her full height and stepped around the butcher, facing her audience once more.

 

“A child towers above him, you say?” she called out. “Why?” An uneasy silence met her words. “Tell me why!”

“Because Bonaparte was a murderer,” the butcher muttered grimly, “and murderers deserve to burn in Hell.”

“Because murderers deserve to burn in Hell,” she agreed solemnly.

 

X X X 

 

Tamar didn’t give anyone time to respond; she was too fired up. Instead, she stalked, cat-like, to the front ranks of the crowd, meeting their eyes with a blazing defiance. 

 

“And wouldn’t you agree,” she shouted, “that abandoning thousands to lives of misery could be considered murder? Don’t you think that leaving innocent men, women, and children starving and homeless is a mortal sin?

“That is what is happening today!” she roared. “All over France, the masses live in squalor!”

“Damn straight!” the man with the tarred ponytail hissed. Indignant howls erupted through the gathered mob.

“Where is your voice?” Tamar cried once the noise had died a bit. “Where are your benefits, your rights? Do you see them? Where are they, when you are the ones that need them most?”

“In the bellies of the bourgeoisie,” the butcher proclaimed. “They live like kings, with more than they know what to do with, getting fat off their corruption, while honest men like you or I can barely keep the clothes on our backs.”

“Not even that!” a young man exclaimed. He was a tall, husky fellow with light brown hair and skin the color of creamed coffee. He spoke with a thick Hungarian accent, and he was, to Tamar’s surprise, completely naked. “I was robbed last night,” he said, not self-conscious in the least. “Some man who was wearing nothing but half a lady’s skirt around his csúzli snuck up behind me and knocked me out. When I woke up, I was as naked as the day I was born.”

A few of the men began to laugh. “Shoulda watched yer back, étranger!” a crusty old seaman said, chortling.

“Did you go after the bloke that took the things?” someone else asked.

The Hungarian shrugged. “Nem,” he sighed. “He probably needed them a bit more than I did.”

“But-but that isn’t fair!” Marius burst out. “He shouldn’t have...felt the need to just...steal another man’s clothes...off his back!”

“If he had none of his own, then he’d have no qualms about doing things like that,” Tamar pointed out. 

“Lad’s right,” the old seaman conceded. “‘Twas me, I’d do th’same.”

Marius shook his head in astonishment. “That...that isn’t right,” he whispered.

 

X X X 

 

Tamar began speaking again, but Marius didn’t hear a word she said. Her words, and those of the Slav, and the seaman, were circling through his head like angry vultures. How could these people live like this? In danger of being robbed, being injured, being killed, every day? Worse, how could they possibly accept this as their fate?

 

Marius had always lived a sheltered life. His wealthy grandfather had taught him to view the destitute as filthy, despicable. Bothersome. Not worth his time. Even when he had met Courfeyrac at university and had begun attending in the Musain, he hadn’t managed to comprehend the scope of the poverty, of the suffering. 

 

Now, watching Tamar and the crowd in their passionate discourse, he saw just how...human the ‘scum of the Earth’ were. He understood it all: the hopes of Les Amis, the misery and fury of the people. He understood the pain and rage that he saw in Enjolras’s eyes every day. He understood Tamar’s uncanny strength, a strength that was mirrored by all the men standing before him now. It was a strength wrought by injustice, mistreatment. Sin, as Tamar had said.

 

Tamar…. At that moment, she was the embodiment of righteous anger. The peoples’ voice. Her conviction rang out in every word she spoke, and Marius could feel her passion as if it were his own. the crowd, too, was moved by this spectacle, and they roared and cheered alongside her stirring words.

 

“Three months ago you let your voices be heard,” she was saying. “You tired of all the oppression, all the pain and all the grief. You tired of being treated like base garbage!”

“Hear!” the Hungarian shouted.

“Hear!” came the resounding echo.

“The only garbage in France is created by the gluttony of the rich!” she yelled. “The rich and the king himself! He is the one that leaves you with nothing, leaves you for dead! His rule is a noose around the neck of the country!”

“And the innocent refuse to be hanged,” the butcher rumbled.

“But a hangman can be so hanged,” Tamar continued more softly. “Three months ago, the noose was cast aside, the barricades went up, and your hangman was thrown into his own bloody gallows-pit. For a brief time, you had a republic. You had a freedom that had been denied to you for years. 

“And now we have another king, who’s no better than the last!” She had raised her voice once more. “What will you do? I ask you, WHAT WILL YOU DO?!” 

“Fight, Dieu zut!” the man with the tarred ponytail bit out. “We give him what he damn well deserves!”

 

This time, the roars the crowd broke into were deafening, and Tamar made no move to silence them. She had said her piece, and now she looked stunned, as though she hadn’t been expecting such a reaction. Perhaps she hadn’t. The men could have refused to listen. Instead, they had gotten caught up in her enthusiasm, and she had sparked not a fire, but a blazing inferno in their hearts. There would be no quenching this flame. It would burn to its glorious or bloody end.

 

Marius closed his suddenly stinging eyes. This was what he had needed to see. This was living proof of the peoples’ heart. This was the soul of France: not fine food, or beautiful architecture, or gaudy, costumed dandies, but this, this rough, raw passion. This insatiable hunger for liberty. This fire.

 

Without realizing fully what he was doing, he stepped up beside Tamar, opened his eyes, watched the storming mob.

“Vive la France,” he whispered.

The butcher, standing on Tamar’s other side, echoed his words in a thundering, booming shout. “Vive la France!”

“Vive la France! Vive l’avenir! Vive la révolution!” The voices of the crowd rose louder and louder, until the heavens could surely hear their impassioned cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's Chapter 14 for you. Hope you liked it!
> 
>  
> 
> Translation time!
> 
> Csúzli: Hungarian for ‘crotch’
> 
> Nem: Hungarian for ‘no’
> 
> étranger: French for ‘foreigner’
> 
> Dieu zut: Roughly French for ‘God hang it all’
> 
> Vive la France: French for ‘long live France’
> 
> Vive l’avenir: French for ‘long live the future’
> 
> Vive la révolution: French for ‘long live the Revolution’
> 
>  
> 
> Tamar’s saying ‘three months ago’ was a reference to the 1830 July Revolution, which began in the end of May. As I’ve said before, this revolution forced the reactionary Charles X out of office, marking the end of Bourbon rule in France (this was the dynasty that was ousted during the 1789-92 Revolution with the execution of Louis XVI, and reinstated after the banishment of Napoleon with Louis XVII). The Duc d'Orleans, crowned as Louis-Philippe, was made king after Charles X was forced to abdicate and exiled.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah, I haven’t updated in months...possibly close to a year. I really have no excuses; school has been busy, and I sort of just...lost inspiration for this story, so...I’m very sorry, if anyone’s still interested in this....

 

  “We’ll have their full support, I think,” Tamar mused, her voice filled with a kind of awed pride. “The men at the docks were...vehement...to say the least.” Not only that; vehement was too gaudy a word to describe the fire that had sparked in the hearts of those men. Impassioned. Blazing. Intamable.

 

  Sitting here now, in the Musain’s back room, giving her report, she still felt the ringing reverberations of the workers’ shouts and cheers in her mind, and marveled at it, allowing her ego to rise just a bit in knowing that she had set them off...but then, she hadn’t, really. She had merely held rebellion’s lit match to the kindlings of discontentment and rage already lying in those rough hearts, ready to burn at the slightest touch. And burn they had….

 

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Enjolras replied, startling her from her reverie, giving her a tight-lipped smile that his relieved, grateful eyes belied.

  “You should have seen her,” Marius cut in, his own voice hushed with something...almost akin to reverence. “She just...went up there, no fear whatsoever, and even when she tripped, she spoke to everyone and brought them to her side...worked them up, and -”

  “It was nothing so great,” Tamar protested, feeling uncomfortable with the young man’s laudation of her. Still, Marius shook his head, refusing to hear her ‘undermining her success.’

  “Non, par Dieu,” he breathed.

 

  Suddenly turning his clear blue gaze upon Enjolras, the younger man leaned forward convulsively and grabbed the leader’s tanned, calloused hand in his own pale one. “I understand,” he said fervently, gripping the digit tightly for emphasis. “What you do here, what you aim to achieve, I see it now! This day, I have seen...the sorrow, and the plight, the desolation of the people, but  have also seen their hope, their fire. This day, I have seen...a world, I have been made blind to my whole life….”

 

  Enjolras pulled away none too gently, eyeing Marius with cautious suspicion, but Marius sat back unperturbed, gazing incredulously about the café as though he were seeing it for the first time.

 

  “This day,” he murmured, a crystalline tear sparkling on his dark lashes, “I have seen the heart and soul of France.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  Marius, in his elated state of epiphany, was only too happy to relay the account of what occurred at the docks to the other Amis upon their arrivals, though they were bursting with news of their own endeavors. The back room of the Musain soon echoed with the sounds of the men's’ combined voices, and Tamar found herself feeling more than a little overwhelmed as she tried (and failed) to listen to everyone at once.

 

  “That’s enough,” Enjolras said suddenly, his low voice carrying a quiet authority that effectively silenced the chaotic group. “Mercé. Now….” He trailed off for a moment, glancing around sharply to meet everyone’s eyes, as if to gauge their energy as being wrought of good or bad. “One at a time, se te plai. Have we had success today, or not?”

 

  As it turned out, most everyone had; the fact seemed almost too good to be true. Combeferre and Joly spoke animatedly of their assurance regarding their fellow medical students’ support of their cause and subsequent attendance of Tuesday’s rally, while Feuilly, at the factory, had garnered as passionate (and a bit more violent) response from the workers there as Tamar and Marius had incited at the docks. Enjolras was, as befitting his nature, reticent regarding his speaking at the Sorbonne, but the passionate blaze in his eyes was more than enough of an indication of triumph. Courfeyrac and Jehan each clutched a stack of what Tamar presumed were the pamphlets, and they enthusiastically spread them out over the tables for the others to peruse and overlook.

 

  Tamar picked one up and began to flip through it, feeling rather surprised by just how many of the Amis had contributed to its making. Courfeyrac’s pieces were, as expected, humorous, advertising rallies, calling for ‘the subduing and subjugation of fat monarchical cocks,’ and often accompanied by crude caricatures of despised officials. Combeferre’s short essays were temperate, wise, begging for a pacifistic approach to securing change, while Bahorel and Feuilly countered those proposals with fiery calls to arms and rough denouncements of the system in layman’s terms. Jehan had written lyrical, stirring poetry, and Bossuet and Joly, in lieu of offering writings of their own, had transcribed the galvanic words of the beloved General Lamarque: the peoples’ man himself.

 

  As for Enjolras...Gott, but his words were riveting. Written in both fluid French and the curling langue d’Oc, they named passionately the abuses of the bourgeoisie, raged against the king’s complacency, demanded rebellion and change in flaming, merciless declarations that set the blood to boiling. He really did have a way with words, she thought, thinking suddenly of the grim, desolate faces of the wasted waifs upon Paris’s sordid streets. Even the most hopeless of them might listen to such ardent please…. For the sake of Enjolras, the Amis...the country...she could only pray they would.

  
  


X X X

  
  


  “This day is good for us all,” Enjolras said, with a note of suppressed pride and pleasure in his voice. Turning to Tamar and Marius, he added, “Mark it well. Having such great successes all at once is, unfortunately, too rare.”

  “Too true,” Courfeyrac sighed, placing one hand dramatically on his chest in a gesture of affected grief. The action garnered some laughs from the others, but a warning glare from the leader made him lower it, grinning abashedly. “Right then, Apollo,” he exclaimed sheepishly...but with no great amount of regret. “No antics for you, I see…. But where are Bossuet and Bahorel?”

 

  It was a reasonable inquiry. Those two were the only men not present in the café to give a report...apart from Grantaire, who, in all probability, had not left the Musain at all. Tamar could only assume that they were still seeking out those other groups that Bahorel had mentioned having contact with...or else some dire mischance had befallen them. Given Bahorel’s propensity for violence and Bossuet’s horrid luck, that wouldn’t be at all surprising….

 

  “They have not returned,” Enjolras replied, with a frosty note in his voice that Tamar recognized as worry...as well as aggravation. “I did, however, see them upon returning from the Sorbonne; they were making for an inn by the river.”

  “To meet another group, I suppose?” Combeferre asked, sounding a bit too unconvinced for comfort.

  “Presumably.” The blonde leader’s response was tight, though, and his eyes, gazing resolutely towards the back room’s door, were dark and cold, like a frozen sea. The frigid look discomfited them all.

  “Presumably?” a husky bass voice suddenly roared, startling everyone. “Enjolras, for shame! Did you ever doubt me? When, pray tell, have I ever spurned my duty to the cause for a jaunt in a pub?”

  “Four times in the last month, and thirteen more in the last year,” came the dry retort, eliciting more laughter from the gathered men and girl.

  “Well.” Bahorel sauntered into the back room like a man without a care in the world, smiling crookedly and sporting an impressive black eye. “Can’t really argue with that...but I was doing business this time, I assure you!”

  “If your business was brawling, then I daresay you completed it passably well-”

  “In his defense, Eastern Europeans are rather...volatile.” Bossuet, walking-- or limping, rather-- through the door, looked even worse than Bahorel did: his hat missing, his balding crown bleeding, his nose broken, both eyes swollen, and two teeth knocked out. Joly immediately rushed to him, fussing over his hurts like a fretful mother hen, while Enjolras’s stony eyes roved over both injured men, anger lighting an icy fire within them

 

  “Tak,” a new voice said suddenly: gravelly, carrying a thick Polish accent. “Some of my men, see, they get a bit...how you say...out of control? Whoever is leader among you Amis, I am sorry for that...but your men Bossuet and Bahorel did duty right, I think, if it was finding help. Here you have your help.”

  
  


X X X

  
  


  The man that walked through the door now was tall and lanky, with tanned skin, a week’s worth of rough ginger stubble, and thick curls of flaming copper hair that brushed the collar of his worn sea-jacket. His face, with its close-set eyes, hooked, crooked nose, and wry, thin-lipped mouth, was not the sort to inspire confidence, but he swept off his battered tweed cap all the same, and bowed to the room at large, like some self-assured foreign envoy greeting a king’s court.

 

  “Good it is to meet you all,” he rasped, flashing white teeth in a quick, brash grin. “Bossuet and Bahorel have told me much about you: eleven men, one still mostly a boy, one a Bonapartist, one a useless pijak, and the rest young men like me. Your leader, they tell me, they call Apollo, and he call himself Enjolras.” The name seemed to stick in the Pole’s throat, mangled slightly by the lilting, guttural accent, and he winced. “Pryzkro mi. That name for me is stranger than the rest.” Pausing for a moment, he scanned all of their faces with dark eyes that gleamed with unexpected sharpness. “Who here is Enjolras?”

  “I am he.” The golden-haired leader stepped forward, confident and wary all at once as he gave the Pole a guarded scrutiny. “And your name, sénher? I’m afraid I have yet to hear it.”

  The brash grin was back, and the rangy redhead brought one large, bony hand up to clasp Enjolras’s firmly. “I never said it, see. Pavel Dubcek I am called, and I wear revolution’s colors proud as any self-respecting Francuz.” That said, the man, Pavel, drew aside one lapel of his coat, revealing a cloth fleur-de-lis pinned to the inside, bearing the red, white, and blue colors of the rebellion, just like the rosettes of the Amis. “My men outside, they and I are Fleur-de-lis- the hope of the lost. Just like you Amis de l’abaisse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s rather short; I really needed to adapt to this story again, and get a feel for the characters and plot. In other news, Pavel and his Fleur-de-lis will make very important additions to this story’s cast; be prepared to see more of them in the future. Now….
> 
> Translation time! French will be marked with an F, Occitan with an O, German with a G, and Polish was a P.  
> Non, par Dieu (F): No, by God  
> Mercé (O): Thank you  
> Se te plai (O): Please; literally, if you please  
> Gott (G): God  
> Langue d’Oc: The official French name for the Occitan language  
> Tak (P): Yes  
> Pijak (P): Drunkard  
> Przykro mi (P): Sorry  
> Sénher (O): Sir, Mister  
> Francuz (P): Frenchman  
> Amis de l’abaisse (F): Friends of the abased
> 
> Feel free to correct me if you have better translations.
> 
> That’s all for now! Remember to review! Auf Wiedersehen! Au revoir! ¡Adiós!


End file.
